


Caught in the Act III: Sub Rosa

by stoplookingup



Series: Caught in the Act [3]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 10:18:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5244653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoplookingup/pseuds/stoplookingup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder and Scully go undercover to rescue a  kidnapped child from a white supremacist militia group. Success  could mean the salvation of the duo's partnership -- if it doesn't  destroy them first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caught in the Act III: Sub Rosa

**Author's Note:**

> Fixed! When I first posted this here, I'd copied the text from a file that was half CitA2 and half CitA3. This is now CitA3 in its entirety. (CitA2 is also on AO3, if you'd like to read it.) Thanks to the commenters who pointed out my mistake. 
> 
> Originally published under the author name Parrotfish, June 1997. Apologies for the short line format. That was how it had to be done back in the usenet days, before line wrapping was a thing.
> 
> Original note:  
> \-- When I wrote Caught in the Act, it was meant  
> as a stand-alone story, part erotica, part musing on society's  
> double standard when it comes to sex. I got a lot of e-mail asking  
> for a sequel. Caught in the Act II: No Win Situation was more of  
> the same. But when I sat down to write the story before you now,  
> I found that a lot of other interesting questions had come up  
> along the way. Questions about sexuality and identity; about the  
> way we see ourselves and our actions as opposed to the way  
> others see us; about the relationship between our inner lives and  
> our external lives. Next thing I know, I've got 160k. There's still  
> some erotica here, but it's coupled with a huge dose of angst and  
> some very brutal character exploration. I found it fascinating to  
> write, and I hope you find it interesting to read. While you are  
> more than welcome to read the first two stories on the archive,  
> this one can be read on its own.
    
    
    Caught in the Act III: Sub Rosa 1/8
    by Parrotfish   
    
    
      
    
    "Whatever you do, don't look at the painting."  
      
    "The painting." Hugh Lester looked at his partner with mingled  
    disbelief and disdain.  
      
    "That's right. The painting over the mantle in the dining room.  
    It's a portrait of his grandfather. Don't look at it."  
      
    "Is it that bad? Maybe we should call the NEA for backup."  
      
    "I'm not kidding, Hugh!"  
      
    "All right! All right! Let's just get this over with."  
      
    "Okay. You take the back door. If I haven't let you in within two  
    minutes, break it down. Let's go."  
      
    Fox Mulder got out of the car and approached the front of the  
    large, Victorian house as his partner circled around back. He  
    waited a minute to give Lester time to get into position, then  
    rapped sharply on the door.  
      
    "Open up! Federal agents!"  
      
    He was met with dead silence.  
      
    Mulder tried the doorknob. It turned easily, and the large wood- 
    and-glass door swung open. He entered and found himself in a  
    spacious, wood-paneled foyer.  
      
    "Sheffield? Sheffield! I know you're here!"  
      
    Silence.  
      
    Mulder headed toward the back of the house to let his partner in.  
    He didn't make it.  
      
    A large man with a startling mass of white hair and a jagged scar  
    across his forehead stood in Mulder's way. He'd been standing  
    there all along, Mulder guessed, waiting.  
      
    "I know it's you, Sheffield. I know how your cousins wound up  
    dead."  
      
    A loud crash came from the direction of the kitchen.  
      
    "We're here to arrest you and take you out of this house,"  
    Mulder said.  
      
    For a moment, he saw fear in the big man's eyes. Just for a  
    moment. He watched as the fear turned into gleeful hatred.  
      
    "Lester! Get out of there!" Mulder yelled.  
      
    Too late. He tried to close his eyes, but he had lost control over  
    them. And then the blue bolts seared them. Like twin lasers, the  
    fiery beams leaped from Sheffield's eyes into his, and an  
    agonizing pain overwhelmed him. Another couple of seconds,  
    and his brain would simply shut down under the assault.  
      
    "NO!" He could no longer see, but from somewhere behind the  
    burning pain, Mulder heard a voice scream the single syllable.  
      
    And then the pain stopped.  
      
    He sank to his knees, dazed, blinking back the tears that poured  
    out in the aftermath of the attack. His vision was still blurred  
    when he looked up, and at first he thought he was hallucinating.  
    As his eyes cleared, a surge of relief washed over him.  
      
    Sheffield lay face down on the floor. Scully had her knee in his  
    back, and she was snapping on the cuffs.  
      
      
    "What are you doing here?" Mulder croaked with whatever  
    voice he could find.  
      
    "When you told me you thought Sheffield's mother was coming  
    here and that she was in danger, I knew you'd try something like  
    this," she said. "I thought you could use some help."  
      
    "Lester -- go check on him. I'll keep an eye on Sheffield."  
    Mulder got to his feet.  
      
    "Where is he?"  
      
    "Dining room. He must have looked at the painting."  
      
    Scully dashed out. It only took her a minute to find him.  
      
    "Mulder! Call an ambulance!"  
      
    ____________________________  
      
    It was just like old times -- sitting side by side in Assistant  
    Director Skinner's office, prepared for the worst.  
      
    "Agent Lester is in intensive care," Skinner was saying. "He's in  
    a coma, and the doctors can't find any cause. No trauma. No  
    pathology. Nothing. I suspect you have a theory...?" This last  
    was addressed directly to Mulder.  
      
    "I know what happened to him. Not that it's going to make any  
    difference."  
      
    Scully gripped the arms of her chair tighter. Mulder was  
    throwing all the bad attitude he had in Skinner's face, flipping  
    him a mental bird. He'd always been prone to disrespectful  
    behavior, but ever since he'd lost her as a partner, he'd been so  
    flippant that Scully feared for his job.  
      
    "Agent Mulder," Skinner spat through clenched teeth, "I have a  
    severely injured agent who may not survive the night. I'm in no  
    mood for your snide comments. Tell me what happened. NOW!"  
      
    "What happened? Hugh Lester refused to believe me. If he had,  
    he'd be here talking to you now."  
      
    "What do you mean?"  
      
    Mulder sighed, knowing he was about to sound crazy. Again.  
      
    "Sheffield has the ability to channel one person's psychic energy  
    and use it against another person. But he can only do it by means  
    of an intermediate device -- a painting in his house. I told Lester  
    not to look at the painting. He ignored my warning. Scully found  
    him collapsed in front of the painting."  
      
    "You mean to tell me that Agent Lester is in a coma because  
    Sheffield sapped his psychic energy in order to attach you?"  
      
    Mulder merely nodded sullenly.  
      
    "Agent Scully, what were you doing at Sheffield's house last  
    night?"  
      
    "I thought Mulder could use some help," she replied cryptically.  
      
    "Agent Scully has the ability to balance the outrageousness of  
    my ideas with the empirical evidence of their validity," Mulder  
    said.  
      
    "In other words, she believes you?"  
      
    "Not always. But she trusts me, just as I trust her." Scully  
    glanced at her former partner, thinking he had gone too far. He  
    was flaunting the special nature of their relationship, and that  
    was a dangerous card to play. Their superiors didn't understand  
    that, together, she and Mulder made a whole that was so much  
    greater than its parts. She didn't think there was any point trying  
    to explain it to them.  
      
    "I know this will come as a shock, Mulder," Skinner said, "but  
    I'm convinced that this episode provides compelling evidence  
    that you cannot be effective on your cases with any partner other  
    than Agent Scully."  
      
    Well, what do you know. Skinner was quite a surprising man.  
    Then again, Scully knew he would never have broken them up if  
    it hadn't been for the scandal. Hell, Skinner would happily have  
    turned a blind eye if it would have helped. But when that boob,  
    D'Amico, had walked in on her and Mulder in bed and had filed  
    an official report, there hadn't been much Skinner could do about  
    it.  
      
    Until now.  
      
    "I'm temporarily assigning you a new partner, Mulder." The six- 
    foot-two FBI agent slumped down on his chair and hunched his  
    shoulders like a defiant teen-ager told he'd have to spend time in  
    detention.  
      
    "You'll work with Agent Scully until a permanent arrangement  
    can be made."  
      
    Mulder sat up in surprise.  
      
    "But sir, the Internal Affairs Committee said..."  
      
    "You leave the IAC to me. Last I heard, they preferred our  
    agents alive -- almost as much as I do."  
      
    "Sir," Scully began hesitantly, "is there any chance these events  
    might be presented in such a manner as to alter the committee's  
    decision and make the arrangement permanent?"  
      
    Skinner took a long moment before answering.  
      
    "I don't know," he said.  
      
    _______________________________  
      
    The snick of a door latch woke Mulder from a deep, dreamless  
    sleep. He bolted upright, startled, but a look around calmed his  
    instinctive reaction. Scully must be home.  
      
    He'd gone straight to her place after work. She hadn't arrived yet,  
    and, having slept little the previous night in the wake of events at  
    the Sheffield house, he'd thrown himself, exhausted, onto  
    Scully's bed.  
      
    He stretched languidly and got up. The room was dark. It must  
    be late. Scully's last-minute autopsy must have been a  
    complicated affair.  
      
    He padded barefoot into the hallway and was about to turn to the  
    living room when he heard the water go on in the bathroom.  
    Turning that way instead, he saw Scully kicking off her heels as  
    she reached for the bubble bath.  
      
    "S..." The barest whisper of her name escaped when he clamped  
    down on it. She was reaching back for the zipper of her skirt.  
      
    Mulder stood in the dim hallway and watched through the open  
    bathroom door as Scully unzipped herself and slid the skirt off,  
    folding it neatly and laying it on top of the hamper. Then she  
    pulled her panty hose down and off, bending over to remove  
    them, her richly rounded, silk-encased bottom turned toward  
    him.  
      
    Oh, God.  
      
    He and Scully had been intimate long enough now so that he  
    could generally watch her undress without completely losing it.  
    But standing there in  the dark, unbeknownst to her, watching  
    her prepare for a bath, was too much.  
      
    One small part of his mind told him to step forward, to say  
    something, to announce his presence. The other ninety percent  
    was taking instructions from somewhere south of his belt.  
      
    She sat on the closed toilet, her blouse hanging loosely to her  
    thighs, and bent one leg to take her foot in her hands, massaging  
    the sole with her thumbs. He took note of the way she began at  
    the heel and worked up toward the ball, digging hard at the high  
    point of the arch along the way. He filed it away for future  
    reference. He would do it for her just that way sometime.  
      
    He leaned against the wall as she started on the other foot, her  
    head bent forward so that a sweep of auburn hair veiled her face.  
      
    With a final wiggle of her toes, she released her foot and sat up,  
    her hair falling back to reveal her striking profile: the tiny nose,  
    the high cheeks, the lush lips. She looks so delicate, he thought.  
      
    Yeah. Delicate enough to take down a 250 pound  man and cuff  
    him before he knew what hit him, he mused, smiling.  
      
    Scully stood, turned toward the mirror and began unbuttoning  
    her blouse. She seemed to be eyeing herself critically, crinkling  
    her forehead and baring her teeth. Mulder wondered if she was  
    considering some imagined flaw that no one but she would  
    notice.  
      
    She slid the blouse off and stood before him in white silk bra and  
    panties. He became aware of the pressure growing in his groin.  
    She reached back and unhooked the bra, throwing it on top of  
    the hamper with the rest of her clothes. Still watching herself in  
    the mirror, she raised her hands to her breasts and cupped them,  
    pushing them up so that the valley between them became an  
    invitingly tight crease.  
      
    I should say something now, Mulder thought guiltily. This is too  
    good.  
      
    He said nothing.  
      
    He watched, riveted, as she lowered her hands and smoothed  
    them across the tight skin of her belly, hooked her fingers at the  
    waist of her panties and bent to lower them.  
      
    Mulder was rock hard inside his suit pants at the sight of her,  
    nude and unaware of him.  
      
    Lazily, she raised her arms high and stretched, then turned to the  
    bathtub and leaned over to shut the water off, offering another  
    beautiful view of her now naked ass.  
      
    She turned and sat on the edge of the tub, facing him. He was  
    sure the game was up. She would see him standing there. He  
    should say something now.  
      
    But instead of calling to him, she closed her eyes, moved her legs  
    apart and began stroking lazy circles against a silky thigh. Oh,  
    sweet Jesus. The hand was creeping higher, heading into the red  
    flesh nestled inside the curls between her legs.  
      
    Slowly, enticingly, her middle finger disappeared.  
      
    Mulder was quite sure he had never been so rigid without first  
    experiencing any actual physical contact. Not since he was  
    sixteen, anyway.  
      
    Scully drew the finger out slowly and then pushed it back in,  
    bringing the other hand to her breast to pinch the nipple. When  
    her finger withdrew completely and she touched her clitoris, he  
    reached for his own zipper, slowly pulling it down, careful to  
    make no noise as she began her steady stroking, her head falling  
    back to bare her long, ivory throat.  
      
    Mulder stripped silently, never removing his eyes from the  
    spectacle of her self-indulgence. Her head rolled from side to  
    side as she increased the pace, dipping a finger inside herself  
    from time to time to capture the moisture she needed.  
      
    He held back, watching as droplets of sweat beaded her brow in  
    the steamy bathroom.  
      
    She took a nipple firmly between thumb and forefinger, rolling  
    and pulling at it hard enough to make her bite her lip in exquisite  
    pain.  
      
    Still, he held back.  
      
    Her hand reached a rapid machine gun-fire pace across the  
    swollen flesh of her clitoris, and a low moan escaped her. A  
    sheen of sweat covered her chest, and every muscle grew taut  
    with anticipation.  
      
    He dug his fingernails hard into the palms of his hands and held  
    back.  
      
    The low moan became a guttural yell as her hips bucked, and  
    she plunged two fingers deep inside.  
      
    He surged forward, reaching her in three long strides. He  
    grabbed her hand in an iron grip and pulled it away. As he  
    dropped to his knees between her legs, her eyes sprang open in  
    shock.  
      
    Before she could speak, he had rammed himself in to the root,  
    his hands holding her hips firmly in place so that she wouldn't  
    slide back away from him. Her already-orgasmic cunt clenched  
    hard around him, the sensation wrenching a scream from her.  
      
    He gasped at the feeling of pulling out while her strong muscles  
    worked to suck him in, then rammed himself home again. Her  
    climax, which had begun before he'd even entered her, continued  
    to build. She was twitching and writhing in his arms so that he  
    could barely hold her still as he slammed into her again and  
    again in a ball-tightening frenzy of hot, hard flesh inside hot, wet  
    flesh.  
      
    His blood seemed to rush straight from his heart to his cock to  
    his head, pounding in his ears to the rhythm of his hips and the  
    melody of her keening orgasm, and then his insides surged  
    through and out, streaming into her fiery depths, pumping a  
    white-hot stream of desire and need and infinite pleasure.  
      
    She ground her pelvis against him in a circular motion, milking  
    the last drop from him as his head fell onto her shoulder.  
      
    God. Could he possibly want anything more from life?  
      
    This was perfect.  
      
    She nuzzled his ear.  
      
    "Hi, partner," he whispered.  
      
    ___________________________
    
    END 1/8
    
    Caught in the Act III: Sub Rosa 2/8
    by Parrotfish   
    
    
    "No, Mulder!"  
      
    "What do you mean, 'No?'"  
      
    "It's a pretty simple concept. Which part were you having trouble  
    with?"  
      
    "The part where you refuse an assignment."  
      
    "Assignment? Now you're handing out assignments?"  
      
    Scully was furious. In the past ten days, Mulder had dragged her  
    on two of the wildest goose chases of her career. First, they'd  
    spent three miserable, mosquito-bitten days in the Louisiana  
    bayous, tracking down rumors of zombies. Zombies! And then  
    there had been the four straight days slogging through freezing  
    New Hampshire rain, investigating allegations of human  
    sacrifices conducted at one of the nation's most bizarre tourist  
    traps, known to the locals as "America's Stonehenge."  
      
    Needless to say, both cases had been dead-ends.  
      
    And now Mulder wanted to re-open a thirty-five-year-old file on  
    a haunted house.  
      
    "What the hell is wrong with you, Scully?"  
      
    "There is nothing wrong with me, Mulder, other than the fact  
    that you're taking advantage of me."  
      
    "Excuse me?"  
      
    "Don't expect me to swallow every crackpot theory of yours just  
    because I'm not Hugh Lester!"  
      
    "Crackpot?"  
      
    Scully was on a tear, and she wasn't about to let him get a word  
    in edgewise.  
      
    "I'm going home, Mulder. Alone. I don't want to see you or hear  
    from you tonight. I need one night of sanity before I can cope  
    with your skewed world view again. We'll talk about this  
    tomorrow."  
      
    With that, she stormed out.  
      
    "Shit!" Mulder cursed aloud to the empty room.  
      
    It wasn't supposed to be like this. They'd fought hard for the right  
    to work together again, but now that they were doing it, it was a  
    disaster.  
      
    Okay, maybe he was trying to cram a lot of the more  
    unconventional cases into a short period of time. But their  
    partnership was only temporary. Who knew what kind of  
    starched shirt with a pole up the ass he'd be paired with next  
    time?  
      
    Why couldn't Scully understand that?  
      
    The worst part was that it hadn't just been their professional  
    relationship that had suffered. They hadn't made love since the  
    night Skinner had teamed them up. Sure, they'd been on the road  
    a lot, and they'd stuck by their hands-off-while-on-a-case rule.  
    And, on the couple of nights they'd had off, they'd both been  
    bone-tired. But Mulder was afraid there was more to it than that.  
      
    Shit.  
      
    He didn't want to admit it, but he was really scared.  
      
    They'd always said they could pull it off -- balancing their  
    professional and personal relationships. Had they been wrong?  
      
    He couldn't afford to think about that. Because that would mean  
    he'd have to lose Dana Scully, either as a partner or as a lover. If  
    things got bad enough, maybe even as both.  
      
    Any way he looked at it, the operative word was, "lose." That  
    was not a prospect he cared to consider.  
      
    _________________________  
      
    When Scully came in the next morning, she wasn't surprised to  
    find Mulder looking haggard and exhausted. She knew he  
    wouldn't sleep well after she'd walked out on him. But what  
    choice did she have? If they'd seen each other after work, they  
    would only have argued, and the result would have been the  
    same -- separate beds.  
      
    Still, the sight of his tired and anxious face tugged at her  
    heartstrings. She took her coat off.  
      
    "Mulder ... I'm sorry. It's just that ..."  
      
    "No, Scully, it's all right. I know you ..."  
      
    The phone rang, cutting them both off mid-sentence.  
      
    "Mulder ... Okay. We'll be right up." He hung up. "Skinner  
    wants us."  
      
    Scully tensed. So soon? They hadn't even had time to settle into  
    a rhythm. She was sure they could, given just a little more time.  
      
    They just needed time.  
      
    That was the problem, really. Knowing it was temporary.  
    Feeling rushed. That's why Mulder had chosen the screwiest  
    cases. He knew he wouldn't be able to pursue them once he got a  
    new partner who, like Lester, would think he was one fry short  
    of a Happy Meal.  
      
    And that was why she had no patience with him. It was hard to  
    have patience when you were always hearing a clock ticking in  
    the background.  
      
    Her eyes softened as she looked at him. "Okay, let's get it over  
    with."  
      
    He followed her out of the basement office with his hand resting  
    lightly on the small of her back. They entered Skinner's office  
    the same way. He waved them into seats and picked up the  
    phone.  
      
    "Hold my calls, Kimberly," he barked.  
      
    The two agents exchanged glances.  
      
    "This isn't about reassignment, is it?" Mulder asked.  
      
    "No." Skinner eyed them before continuing, looking as though  
    he were running some complicated calculations through his  
    mind. "It's about a case," he said, seeming to have arrived at an  
    answer. "A very important case."  
      
    He paused to collect his thoughts, then continued.  
      
    "Before I give you the details, I must warn you that when you  
    walk out of this office, several things will have changed. First,  
    you will be undercover, with false identities. Second, you will  
    have information that you will not be permitted to discuss with  
    anyone but each other and myself, ever. And third, the fate of a  
    vital piece of American foreign policy that could affect not just  
    national, but global security will be in your hands."  
      
    "Our hands?" Mulder repeated incredulously.  
      
    Skinner ignored him and went on.  
      
    "As you know, the Chinese Foreign Minister was killed in an  
    explosion six months ago during a visit to the U.S. The public  
    story was a gas leak."  
      
    "A lot of people didn't buy that," Mulder said, remembering a  
    conversation he'd had at the time with the Lone Gunmen.  
      
    "A lot of people were right. It was a bomb. The CIA had reason  
    to believe that the attack was carried out by a right-wing, white- 
    supremacist militia group called the White Hand, based in  
    Pennsylvania. But they needed evidence. To get it, they sent a  
    man undercover to infiltrate the organization. He succeeded in  
    making contact with a disgruntled member of the group who  
    agreed with the White Hand's political aims, but not with its  
    violent tactics. This man agreed to turn state's evidence."  
      
    "So where do we come in?" Scully asked.  
      
    "There's been a ... development. The informant's position has  
    been compromised. His contact with the CIA was discovered by  
    members of his group."  
      
    "Did they kill him?"  
      
    "No, surprisingly. It would seem that the group's leader, a man  
    by the name of George Flood, has a rather twisted sense of  
    justice. Instead of silencing the informant the old-fashioned way,  
    he's chosen a more sadistic but equally effective method.  
    Skinner's voice tightened. "Flood has kidnapped the informant's  
    six-year-old son. He's holding the boy as insurance."  
      
    "But that doesn't make any sense," Scully said. "Once the boy is  
    either released or killed, the informant would have no reason to  
    remain silent. Flood would be implicated."  
      
    "They're not going to release him or kill him, are they?" Mulder  
    said quietly.  
      
    "No."  
      
    "I don't understand," Scully said.  
      
    "They're going to hold him indefinitely. The boy is a hostage for  
    life," Mulder explained.  
      
    "Oh my God."  
      
    "We've managed to extricate the informant from his situation.  
    He's safely hidden away. But we can't pursue conventional  
    avenues to retrieve the boy. Nothing must compromise the  
    investigation of the bombing. Any premature information leak  
    that could affect Sino-American relations must be avoided at all  
    costs. For that reason, we cannot involve local law enforcement.  
    You two are going to have to find that boy entirely on your  
    own."  
      
    "You want us to find the kid," Mulder said.  
      
    "Yes. And you must retrieve the boy at a moment when all our  
    suspects' locations are known so that they can be immediately  
    apprehended. If any of them were to slip through our fingers, and  
    they knew their insurance was gone, they would disappear and  
    probably flee the country. We cannot allow that."  
      
    "You're kidding."  
      
    "No, Agent Mulder. I'm not."  
      
    "And they say I'm crazy. This is an impossible assignment."  
      
    "Not entirely," Skinner said. "You have one major advantage."  
      
    "Which is?"  
      
    "The perfect cover. Last week, a black minister, his wife and two  
    children were murdered, their bodies mutilated with swastikas  
    carved on the faces. We managed to nab the killers -- a man and  
    a woman, Robert Gorman and Mary Deene -- with absolutely no  
    publicity. They're on deep ice. They -- you -- are exactly George  
    Flood's kind of people. Gain his confidence. Discover where  
    they're holding the boy."  
      
    "Yeah, and while we're at it, we'll just use our Spidey powers to  
    make everyone give themselves up and confess."  
      
    "That would be acceptable," Skinner deadpanned.  
      
    There was a long silence.  
      
    "You said this was a matter of global security," Scully said at  
    last.  
      
    "The Chinese know damn well that was no gas explosion that  
    killed their man. They believe it was a CIA hit. What very few  
    people know is that before the incident, the U.S. and China were  
    very close to announcing an agreement on nuclear disarmament.  
    The Chinese halted those talks immediately after Xia Feng was  
    killed. The only way to get them back to the table is to nail the  
    real killers. And that won't happen unless you retrieve the  
    kidnapped boy. You'll have one contact -- a phone number. You  
    will not use it unless absolutely necessary."  
      
    "But why us?" Scully asked.  
      
    "Let me put it this way," Skinner said, his eyes locking on hers.  
    "If you pull this off, the most powerful people at the White  
    House, the CIA, the NSA, the State Department and the FBI will  
    owe you an enormous debt. They will give you anything you  
    request to repay it."  
      
    His meaning was clear.  
      
    "Here are your instructions," Skinner said. They took the folders  
    and left.  
      
    __________________  
      
    Back in the safety of the basement, the two agents sat staring at  
    the walls for quite some time.  
      
    "Have you ever gone undercover?" Scully asked at last.  
      
    "Once. You?"  
      
    "Never."  
      
    "It was terrible. I was terrified I'd slip up and blow my cover.  
    And this ..."  
      
    "This is insane."  
      
    Mulder turned to look at her. Her face, her posture, everything  
    about her was tense, drawn tight as a violin string.  
      
    She was right. This was insane.  
      
    It was incredibly dangerous. Incredibly difficult. Incredibly  
    unlikely to succeed.  
      
    It was one step short of suicide.  
      
    "We don't have to do this, Scully."  
      
    "We don't?"  
      
    "No."  
      
    "It's an assignment. Last I checked, following orders wasn't  
    voluntary."  
      
    "Come on, Scully. You know why Skinner gave this to us. It  
    would take something of this magnitude to get the Bureau to  
    reinstate our partnership. But..."  
      
    "But what?"  
      
    "But the way things have been going these last couple of weeks,  
    maybe it's just as well if they don't. Partner us, I mean. We could  
    probably tell Skinner it's not worth it to us, and he'd let us off the  
    hook."  
      
    Scully was thunderstruck. What was he saying? Not worth it?  
    She looked at him in shock. Her mind whirled around the words,  
    "Not worth it."  
      
    Not worth it?  
      
    And then she understood. It was a question. He wasn't telling  
    her. He was asking her.  
      
    She rose, crossed the room and knelt before him.  
      
    "Oh, Mulder. Of course it's worth it."  
      
    He searched her eyes.  
      
    "Do you think we can pull this off, Scully?"  
      
    "We have to, Mulder. Even if there were no disarmament treaty,  
    no CIA operation, no chance to collect a debt of gratitude." She  
    paused, placing a hand on his arm. "There's a six-year-old boy  
    facing life in hell."  
      
    _________________________  
      
    For once, Mulder was happy to let Scully drive. It wasn't that he  
    was tired, or that he needed to review the case. He didn't have a  
    headache, and there was no need to read the map.  
      
    It was the miniskirt.  
      
    Last night, they'd carefully studied their profiles, memorizing the  
    details and using their imaginations to fill in the rest. Included in  
    their necessary preparations was the choice of a wardrobe in  
    which to play the parts. For Mulder, it had been easy -- jeans and  
    T-shirts. What else would a high school dropout auto mechanic  
    wear? But when Scully had started to pack, she dug out articles  
    of clothing he'd never dreamed she owned.  
      
    Halter tops. Hot pants. Skin-tight jeans. Motorcycle boots.  
      
    And the tiny scrap of denim she'd told him was a skirt, which she  
    now barely wore as she drove. It covered her crotch and no  
    more.  
      
    Mulder was quite satisfied with his role as passenger-observer.  
      
    "We're almost there," Scully said, interrupting a particularly  
    spicy fantasy that would have worked much better in a car with  
    a stick shift. "Mulder? Did you hear me?"  
      
    "What? Yeah." Neither spoke again until they passed the sign  
    that welcomed them to Lemington, Pennsylvania.  
      
    "We're going to some very seedy dives. Are you sure you want  
    to be wearing that?"  
      
    "This is exactly what Mary Deene would wear."  
      
    "That's not exactly terribly reassuring."  
      
    "Look, Mulder. Things are going to get a lot uglier than a few  
    drunken passes in a sleazy bar before we get through this. And  
    the only way we'll get through this at all is by being as  
    absolutely credible in these roles as we can be."  
      
    "I know that," he replied peevishly and lapsed back into silence.  
      
    A few minutes later, they pulled up in front of a place called  
    Willy's Bar. Scully turned to Mulder.  
      
    "This is it. From here on in, you're Bobby and I'm Mary. You  
    ready?"  
      
    "I'm ready."  
      
    "You sure?"  
      
    He grinned broadly. "As sure as a homicidal grease monkey can  
    be."  
      
    She smacked his leg and got out of the car.  
      
    As they entered the bar, Mulder surprised her by draping an arm  
    across her shoulders, his hand hanging carelessly over her breast.  
      
    The transformation had begun.  
      
    _____________________________  
      
    The Five Spot was their third bar. Scully was amazed at how  
    many such places there were in a town the size of Lemington.  
    One ought to have been more than enough.  
      
    She and Mulder wove their way to the bar and ordered bourbons,  
    just as they had at the previous two places. She was just slightly  
    tipsy, having finished only half of each drink. The trick was to  
    walk into each place looking like you'd had three at the last one.  
      
    At Willy's Bar and The Station House, all she and Mulder had  
    accomplished were a couple of loud, suggestive conversations  
    that no one seemed to notice. In the car, they'd agreed they'd  
    have to do better.  
      
    Fate handed them their chance.  
      
    A middle-aged black man wearing jeans and a work shirt  
    perched himself on the stool next to Scully's. She waited several  
    minutes before starting.  
      
    "Get your filthy hands off of me!"  
      
    The man looked at her, startled.  
      
    "I said, get your filthy hands off of me!" Louder this time.  
      
    "I didn't touch you," the man replied, surprised.  
      
    Mulder took up the game. He stood and moved to invade the  
    man's space.  
      
    "If you touch her again, I'll kill you, nigger."  
      
    Scully swallowed a surge of nausea.  
      
    The man stood and squared off with Mulder. "I suggest you  
    watch your tongue," he said threateningly.  
      
    "I don't think so -- nigger." This time, Mulder emphasized the  
    foul word, throwing it out as a purposeful challenge.  
      
    "If you don't apologize," the man said with barely restrained  
    fury, "you will regret it."  
      
    "Apologize?" Mulder barked out a harsh laugh. "I don't  
    apologize to niggers. Me and Mary, we know how to teach  
    niggers like you a lesson. If you won't go back where you  
    belong, we'll just have to get rid of you. Like we done before."  
      
    Mulder was braced and ready when the first blow came, but the  
    man had at least fifty pounds on him. He managed to come back  
    with a few solid punches to the stomach before the enraged  
    stranger brought him down and kicked him five or six times for  
    good measure, then stormed out.  
      
    Scully could do nothing but watch.  
      
    "Come on, Bobby," she said, helping him to his feet when it was  
    all over. "Let's get out of here. This place makes me sick."  
      
    _________________________  
      
    She washed the blood off his split lip and checked to make sure  
    nothing was broken. He'd been lucky.  
      
    He was lying shirtless on the queen-sized bed in a seedy motel  
    room she'd found for them while he'd lain groaning in the back  
    seat of the car. Sitting beside him now, she realized this rat hole  
    was going to be home for a while.  
      
    "Jesus, I feel filthy," she said quietly.  
      
    "Me too."  
      
    "Do you think it worked?"  
      
    "Who knows? Depends who happened to be there. We'll have to  
    go back tomorrow and see if anyone takes the bait."  
      
    "That poor guy," Scully sighed.  
      
    "Him? What about me?"  
      
    "You started it."  
      
    "Actually, as I recall, you started it. Buy I have to admit, it was  
    a stroke of genius."  
      
    "Yeah, just like Hitler was a genius. Maybe tomorrow we can  
    invade Poland and launch the Final Solution."  
      
    "Come on, Scully. It wasn't really you."  
      
    "That man doesn't know that."  
      
    "We can't help that. Come here." He reached for her and drew  
    her down on top of him, instantly regretting it when his bruised  
    ribs complained. She rolled off him and lay on her side, propping  
    her head on one hand and resting the other gently on his chest.  
      
    "Thank God you're here," she said. "I don't think I could do this  
    alone."  
      
    He grinned, then winced from the pain.  
      
    "Actually, I quite enjoyed watching you do it alone the other  
    day."  
      
    She returned his wicked smile. "Yeah, but it was even better  
    when you got in on the act."  
      
    He rolled over and hooked one long leg over hers, pulling her  
    hips firmly against his.  
      
    "This time, you don't have to start without me," he said.  
      
    "You sure you're up to it?"  
      
    "What do you think?" He thrust his hips forward so she could  
    feel the hard bulge in his jeans.  
      
    "Your spirit is willing, but your flesh..."  
      
    "...is begging you to go for the zipper."  
      
    "Begging, huh? I like that."  
      
    Despite his bravado, Scully could tell from his stiff, awkward  
    movements that he was still in pain. She determined to take his  
    mind off it.  
      
    "Lie back," she whispered, pushing gently on his shoulder.  
      
    With careful fingers, she stroked his bruised torso, running up  
    his side, across the slight double slope of his chest, down his  
    stomach and around again.  
      
    A low vibration that sounded like a cat's purr began deep in his  
    chest. She leaned in and pressed her lips firmly into the soft flesh  
    where his neck met his collarbone, then tickled the spot with the  
    tip of her tongue.  
      
    The sound grew louder.  
      
    She licked her way up his neck, savoring his unique blend of salt  
    and musk, stopping at the corner where his beautiful lower lip  
    was just starting to swell with its injury, planting a light kiss  
    there.  
      
    The quality of the sound changed. At first, she thought she'd hurt  
    him.  
      
    The she realized it was a snore. He was sound asleep.  
      
    She smiled and whispered in his ear, "Sweet dreams, grease  
    monkey."  
      
    _________________________  
    
    
    END 2/8
    
    Caught in the Act III: Sub Rosa 3/8
    by Parrotfish  
    
    
    On the streets of Lemington, working stiffs were wandering out  
    to lunch counters, McDonalds, Roy Rogers, ATMs, the post  
    office, wherever they needed to go during their midday break.  
      
    Two men sat together on a bench in a small park near the  
    construction site where they'd worked all morning.  
      
    "I tell you, it was them," the younger man said.  
      
    "How can you be so sure?" the other man asked suspiciously. He  
    was older, in his 50s, balding.  
      
    "What they said. How they acted. You get a feeling about these  
    things, y'know? And besides, the man said they'd done it before."  
      
    "Done what? Did he say?"  
      
    "Not exactly. But the way he was telling off that nigger, it don't  
    take no Einstein to figure it out."  
      
    The other man glared at his companion with hard, calculating  
    eyes. "No, it don't take no Einstein. Which is lucky in your  
    case."  
      
    "You leave it to me," the younger man said, untouched by the  
    point of the barb. "I'll get to the bottom of it." The two men  
    packed up their trash and headed back to work.  
      
    _________________________________  
      
    A lanky man in a nearby motel room whose handsome, sensual  
    features were distorted by ugly bruises and a swollen lip stirred  
    for the first time that day. He raised his arms over his head to  
    stretch, and the motion wrenched a surprised moan from him.  
      
    He opened his eyes cautiously, as though fearful that even such a  
    small movement might hurt. It didn't, but  his next action -- the  
    smile he attempted as twin dots of blue and a splash of rich red  
    resolved themselves into Scully -- did.  
      
    She held a glass of water in one hand and reached out to him  
    with the other. "Ibuprofen," she said.  
      
    "Thanks," he managed, struggling to sit up.  
      
    "How bad?" she asked as he downed the pills and took the water  
    from her.  
      
    He moved his arms and legs and rotated his torso, first one way  
    and then the other, testing.  
      
    "I've had worse."  
      
    "That's not saying much," she replied, grinning.  
      
    "You've got a point." He set the glass on the night table beside  
    him, reached for her hand and pulled her onto the bed next to  
    him. "I fell asleep on you last night, didn't I?"  
      
    "Well, next to me."  
      
    "Sorry." He leaned forward and nuzzled her elegant nose with  
    his much larger and, he thought, uglier one.  
      
    "You're forgiven," she whispered just before his teeth nipped at  
    her lower lip, then worked past her chin and down her neck to  
    her shoulder. "Shouldn't we hit the streets?" she asked, trying to  
    back away.  
      
    "Uh-uh." Mulder pulled her back. "Bobby and Mary drank a lot  
    last night. They'd stay in bed all day."  
      
    "Lucky Bobby and Mary," Scully murmured.  
      
    Mulder reached for the belt of her robe and pulled. The robe fell  
    open, revealing that she wore nothing underneath. He leaned  
    forward and wrapped his lips around a hardened, red nipple.  
      
    Scully pulled back again, this time pushing forcefully against his  
    shoulders and standing up.  
      
    "Wait...stop," she said, panting lightly.  
      
    "What?"  
      
    "It's just ... well, I woke up thinking, and I thought maybe we  
    shouldn't. Not while we're here. I mean, we're on a case, and we  
    have that rule..."  
      
    "That rule doesn't apply, Scully. We're alone in this. Besides, last  
    night..."  
      
    "Last night I wasn't thinking."  
      
    "This morning you're thinking too much."  
      
    "Mulder..."  
      
    "No! Don't you dare, Scully. I won't let you."  
      
    "What? Let me what?"  
      
    He reached out to her where she stood by the bed next to him  
    and wrapped his arms around her, resting his face on her bare  
    stomach.  
      
    "I'm not going to let you punish yourself for someone else's sins.  
    You're not Mary Steene. I know how pretending to be her makes  
    you feel. But you're not her."  
      
    Scully stroked his hair, marveling at his ability to leap wildly to  
    a conclusion. A perfectly correct conclusion.  
      
    "God, Mulder, this is so hard," she sighed.  
      
    "I know. And it's going to get worse. But remember, Scully, that  
    I always know exactly who and what you are, no matter what  
    you say or do."  
      
    "Do you?" she asked.  
      
    He felt rigid tension in the muscles pressed against his face. How  
    could she doubt it? He forced the thought away, forced himself  
    to assume a lighter tone. "Now, where was I?" he murmured.  
    "Oh, yeah. Right here."  
      
    He turned his head and took her breast in his mouth again. This  
    time, she arched her back as he pulled at her with his lips and bit  
    down lightly.  
      
    "Doesn't that hurt?" she asked, remembering his split lip.  
      
    "Yes," he mumbled into her flesh.  
      
    She put a hand on either side of his head and gently pulled him  
    off her nipple.  
      
    "Then don't do it."  
      
    "I don't mind."  
      
    A mischievous glint appeared in her eyes. "Let's see if we can  
    find something else you don't mind."  
      
    She pushed him down onto the bed, then slid the robe off her  
    shoulders. Nude, she kneeled on the bed beside him. He reached  
    for her, but she stopped his hand, bringing it to her face and  
    kissing the tender flesh at the inside of his wrist, then the palm,  
    then the tip of his middle finger. The kiss became a suck as she  
    slid her lips down to the knuckle, then back up to the tip. She  
    repeated the motion, her eyes locked on his. He didn't realize her  
    hand had been moving until he felt her warm palm brush the tip  
    of his erection as she pushed his boxers down.  
      
    "I thought you didn't want to," he said, already losing himself in  
    the sensation of her touch.  
      
    "I didn't say that," she replied, removing her mouth from his  
    finger. "I said maybe we shouldn't. Well, maybe we shouldn't.  
    But I will anyway."  
      
    With that, she drew his finger back into her mouth and took  
    another trip down it, wrapping her hand firmly around his cock  
    and stroking at the same time. She did it again, hand mimicking  
    lips, down and then up. And again.  
      
    Mulder gasped at the twin sensation, the movements of her hands  
    and lips eroticizing his finger as much as his stiff penis. He  
    stared into her foggy blue eyes in rapt fascination, giving himself  
    over to her, telling her with his eyes and his body that he was  
    hers to do with what she would.  
      
    That was one of the things he loved about sex with Scully -- the  
    giving over. Until the day she had first touched him in the heat of  
    passion, he had never experienced the fullness of his own  
    sexuality. Oh, he'd had sex. Lots of it. And he was pretty sure no  
    one had ever left his bed complaining. But he had never totally  
    given himself over to the experience. Surrendered to it. Because  
    that would have meant giving himself over to someone. And  
    until Scully came into his life, that had clearly been impossible.  
      
    But now ... now, his body, his heart and his mind were hers to do  
    with as she pleased. And her pleasure was most definitely  
    pleasing to him.  
      
    His thoughts floated as she shifted position, releasing his finger  
    from her mouth. She stripped his underwear off with a vicious  
    tug and straddled his thighs, lacing her fingers through his,  
    pinning his hands at his sides. Leaning over until the heavy  
    softness of her breasts rested on his legs, she kissed, then licked  
    the head of his cock.  
      
    He closed his eyes and felt her. Knew her.  
      
    He understood that euphemism now. To know someone.  
    Because that's what this was. The woman he knew opened her  
    mouth and slipped her wet heat around him.  
      
    The keen intelligence of her brilliant mind slid along the length  
    of him.  
      
    The iron band of her courage wrapped itself firmly around his  
    sensitive, engorged flesh.  
      
    The gentle tremors of her fear vibrated against his sweat- 
    dampened skin.  
      
    The blazing heat of her passion sucked at him.  
      
    The cool grace of her inner and outer beauty blanketed his  
    overwhelmed senses.  
      
    And the magnificent, blinding light of her love carried him over  
    the edge, swallowing the hot stream of his very essence as  
    readily as he urgently offered it to her.  
      
    He knew her. He would always know her. Even when she didn't  
    know herself.  
      
    ___________________________  
      
    Standing at the door of The Five Spot, Scully took a deep breath  
    and let another woman's personality settle over her like a wet,  
    mildewed blanket, close and heavy.  
      
    She had convinced Mulder to let her work the place alone for an  
    hour or so before he showed up. He'd fought like hell at first, but  
    in the end, he'd known she was right. A lone woman was much  
    more approachable. If someone wanted to establish contact, he'd  
    be far less cautious about it if Mulder were absent. And besides,  
    after yesterday the bartender might not even let Mulder in.  
      
    The place was pretty empty -- it was barely 5:00 -- and she had  
    her choice of seats. Deciding a booth would most inviting of  
    strangers' confidences, she headed across the room, letting the  
    part she played flow through her and control the sway of her  
    hips, the way her eyes roved, the sultry set of her mouth.  
    Wearing this alternate identity, she felt acutely aware of her  
    body -- the way her thighs tensed with every high-heeled step;  
    the exact line of skin just a couple of inches below her crotch  
    where the hem of her skirt lay; the light tickle where the tip of  
    her pony tail brushed against the back of her neck; the weight of  
    her breasts resting inside the lacy black bra she knew was quite  
    visible beneath the sheer fabric of her blouse. It was as though  
    her mind were trapped inside someone else's body, causing it to  
    take a constant, detailed inventory of its unfamiliar host.  
      
    She slid into a corner booth and ordered a bourbon from the  
    waitress. For half an hour, she found herself nursing the drink in  
    an odd, state of combined boredom and hyperawareness.  
      
    She startled when a voice suddenly addressed her from behind.  
      
    "Hello there, gorgeous."  
      
    She forced her mouth into a coy smile before turning her head.  
      
    "Hello yourself."  
      
    She sized up the man who had spoken, all the while carefully  
    preserving a vacuous expression on her face. He was thirty or so,  
    white, squarely built and obviously well-muscled, his body hard  
    with the effects of years of manual labor.  
      
    She let her eyes wander over him, knowing what motives he'd  
    ascribe to her, willing to let him. Her pulse quickened when her  
    gaze fell on a large tattoo that was partially hidden by the sleeve  
    of his T-shirt.  
      
    "Mind if I sit down?" he asked.  
      
    "No. Go right ahead."  
      
    He surprised her by sliding in beside her instead of taking a seat  
    across the table.  
      
    "Buy you a drink?"  
      
    "Sure."  
      
    He signaled the waitress, who returned quickly with another  
    bourbon and a Southern Comfort.  
      
    A regular, Scully thought. She knows what he takes.  
      
    "I just love tattoos," she purred after downing her drink in two  
    gulps. "Can I see?"  
      
    The man reached his right hand across to lift his left sleeve to the  
    shoulder, flexing his biceps just inches from her face. She took a  
    good look at the green image of a fierce eagle. It had a small  
    swastika on its breast.  
      
    Paydirt.  
      
    "Weren't you in here yesterday?" he asked. She brought her eyes  
    up to his face as he pulled his sleeve down.  
      
    "Yeah."  
      
    "I noticed you didn't much like that guy pawing you. Was it just  
    him, or are you like that with all the men?"  
      
    Not very bright, she thought He was testing the waters, and none  
    too subtly.  
      
    "No. Only with guys like him."  
      
    "Like him?"  
      
    "Yeah. You know. I prefer white meat."  
      
    The man grinned broadly. "Me too," he said. "So where's your  
    boyfriend?"  
      
    Here goes, Scully thought. I'll have to play it out.  
      
    "I don't know. What, am I supposed to keep him on a leash?"  
      
    "The real question is, does he keep you on a leash?"  
      
    "Hell, no!"  
      
    "Well now, that's what I call a healthy relationship. Umm, what's  
    you name?"  
      
    "Mary."  
      
    "Mary." He raised his tattooed arm and brought it down along  
    the back of the seat behind her. "I'm Frank."  
      
    "Well, Frank, you gonna buy me another drink?"  
      
    "Anything you want." He signaled the waitress again. The drinks  
    showed up as fast as they had the first time.  
      
    "So, Mary, you new in town? I would've noticed you if you was  
    around."  
      
    "Yeah. Just got here yesterday."  
      
    "You don't say?"  
      
    "Seems like a sleepy little dump."  
      
    "Oh, there's plenty of action, if you know where to look." Frank  
    put his big, rough hand on her thigh under the table. Scully  
    willed herself not to flinch.  
      
    "Oh yeah? That's good to hear. I was afraid nothing around here  
    would get me very excited."  
      
    A predatory gleam lit Frank's eyes, and he leaned in closer to  
    whisper in her ear, his hand sliding up her leg so high that his  
    fingertips brushed the elastic of her underwear. Scully bit the  
    inside of her cheek to control her reaction, fighting the reflex to  
    jerk away and slap the bastard.  
      
    It was at that moment that Mulder appeared from nowhere,  
    standing next to the table at a vantage point from which he could  
    see it all. She offered up a silent prayer that their usual ability to  
    communicate with their eyes was up to the task at hand.  
      
    His message, at any rate, was clear.  
      
    <I'll kill him.>  
      
    Jesus, she thought, timing doesn't get any worse than this.  
      
    <You'll ruin everything.>  
      
    <But...>  
      
    <I'm fine, Mulder.>  
      
    Realizing Frank had finished whispering some crude sexual  
    remark in her ear, Scully forced herself to giggle.  
      
    "Well, look who's here," she said aloud. Mulder took her cue and  
    sat down across from them.  
      
    Frank looked momentarily alarmed, like a boy caught with his  
    hand in the cookie jar.  
      
    "This is one pretty lady," he said with feeble bravado.  
      
    Scully held her breath, afraid that their entire mission could end  
    right then and there.  
      
    <Play the game.>  
      
    He glanced at her, then back at the beefy man beside her. A  
    wide, toothy grin split his face. "Hell, she's the best damn piece  
    of tail in the state!" he bellowed.  
      
    Scully felt Frank relax beside her. Crisis averted.  
      
    "You don't look so good .... What's your name, anyway?"  
      
    "Bobby. And you're...?"  
      
    "Frank. You took a hell of a lickin' yesterday." Mulder just  
    shrugged. "I saw it all. I saw that nigger kick you when you was  
    down. Ain't it just like 'em to fight dirty?"  
      
    "Yeah. Sure is."  
      
    Within minutes, more drinks were ordered, and Scully was  
    relieved that Frank seemed to have decided to keep his hands to  
    himself in Bobby's presence. The conversation rambled on,  
    mostly between the two men, mostly about nothing in particular:  
    sports, cars, dirty jokes. It was going nowhere. At last, Scully  
    piped up.  
      
    "Bobby, honey, I gotta eat something. Wanna get outta here?"  
      
    "Sure, baby. Let's go."  
      
    Mulder stood up and slid out of the booth, adding as though it  
    were an afterthought, "I'm glad you know who was right  
    yesterday, Frank."  
      
    "Of course, man! White is always right." Frank stood to let  
    Scully out. "And listen, baby, any time you need some  
    excitement, you know where to find some pure white meat. I'll  
    be happy to cook."  
      
    Scully's breath caught as she glanced over to see Mulder's  
    reaction.  
      
    "Mary's got such a big appetite," he said, catching her eye.  
    "Sometimes one cook just ain't enough for her."  
      
    Frank leered at her as she turned and walked away, staring  
    blatantly at her tight, round ass.  
      
    Mulder lingered until she was out of earshot. Then, in a voice as  
    vicious as it had been jovial moments earlier, he said, "Touch  
    her and you'll wind up as dead as a nigger preacher. You hear  
    me?"  
      
    And he sauntered after her.  
      
    __________________________  
      
    "It's them! I'm sure."  
      
    "You're sure."  
      
    "Yeah. Gotta be. Can you believe the luck?"  
      
    Frank squirmed under the older man's piercing gaze. "That's  
    quite a piece of luck," his companion said at last.  
      
    "I always said I was lucky," Frank boasted, missing the other  
    man's implication.  
      
    "What makes you so sure?"  
      
    "Only that Bobby just about told me in so many words."  
      
    "He told you? What did he say? 'Hi, I killed a family of  
    niggers?'"  
      
    "No!" Frank was at last catching on to the other man's  
    skepticism. "In fact, he wasn't gonna say nothing. I kind of  
    pushed him into it."  
      
    The older man took a bite of his sandwich, chewed and  
    swallowed before resuming the conversation. "And just how did  
    you 'push him into it?'"  
      
    Frank suddenly became reluctant, remembering that his motives  
    the previous evening had not been all business. "I got him mad."  
      
    "How clever of you. And how the hell did you do that?"  
      
    "You don't have to get sore, George. I'm telling you. I just kind  
    of admired his lady friend. That's all. He took offense and told  
    me I'd better look out or I'd end up dead as a nigger preacher.  
    That's exactly what he said."  
      
    George Flood said nothing, chewing on this bit of information  
    along with his lunch. "Where are they staying?" he said at last.  
      
    "Uh...I don't know."  
      
    "You didn't ask?"  
      
    "I was..."  
      
    "You were thinking with your dick again! Jesus, Frank, how can  
    you be so fucking stupid?"  
      
    "Fuck you, George! I found 'em for you!"  
      
    "That's exactly what has me worried."  
      
    The younger man's face clouded over with anger and a bright  
    blue vein bulged in his forehead as he worked his jaw in  
    frustration. "I don't have to take this shit!" he stormed, rising  
    from the bench. "You better apologize or..."  
      
    "Or what?" Flood rose slowly and squared off with Frank. His  
    voice was quietly menacing, like a snake's warning hiss. "Or  
    you'll do what?"  
      
    "I'll...I'll... do something.," Frank finished lamely, his body  
    folding in on itself in a clear signal of defeat.  
      
    "I'll tell you what you'll do," Flood replied in the same calmly  
    dangerous tone. "You'll do exactly what I tell you to do. You'll  
    find them tonight, and you'll bring them to me. And you won't  
    talk to anyone about this. You got it?"  
      
    "I got it," Frank sulked.  
      
    Flood turned on his heel and walked away without another word.  
      
    _____________________  
      
    Mulder woke with a start and reached reflexively to his right.  
    The bed next to him was empty. He turned his head and saw her  
    standing at the window, staring at a gray drizzle. Swinging his  
    feet to the floor, he rubbed his stubbled face and rose to join her.  
    He came up behind her and put his hands on her hips, pulling her  
    back against him, pushing his morning erection into her back.  
      
    She squirmed out of his grasp and sidestepped away.  
      
    "Scully? What's wrong?" His voice was thick with sleepy  
    sandpaper.  
      
    "Nothing."  
      
    He reached for her again. She evaded him.  
      
    "Come on -- what is it?" he asked, more awake now.  
      
    "Nothing. I just... I don't want to."  
      
    "Don't want to what?"  
      
    She heard the amusement in his voice, and it irritated her. "Just  
    don't, okay?" she snapped.  
      
    "Did you sleep?" More gently now. He could tell she was really  
    upset.  
      
    "Not much."  
      
    "What were you thinking about?"  
      
    "Nothing. Mary."  
      
    Her barely articulate reply actually clarified things for him. She  
    was, after all, the straightest of arrows. Scully might not be  
    especially good at confronting her own fears head-on, but she  
    was singularly true to her own beliefs. She had a code of ethics  
    that was built on a rock-solid foundation, and she was  
    unwaveringly true to it. It got her through everything. It was  
    what let her sleep at night, even when her life was being torn  
    apart by threats of violence, betrayal and chaos.  
      
    This assignment was the most difficult thing anyone could ever  
    ask of her. It forced her to abandon herself. Item by item, her  
    most closely held values had to be swapped out for their exact  
    opposites. For justice, bias. For fairness, hatred. For truth,  
    subterfuge. And knowing her, she was punishing herself for it.  
      
    All right, then. He would be patient. He would wait until she  
    was ready. But, God, he hoped she'd allow herself time off for  
    good behavior.  
      
    "Let's get some breakfast," he said.  
      
    She smiled gratefully. "Yeah. I'm famished."  
      
    __________________  
    
    END 3/8
    
    Caught in the Act III: Sub Rosa 4/8
    by Parrotfish 
    
    "Maybe you should hit me."  
      
    "What?"  
      
    "Or grab me."  
      
    "Excuse me?"  
      
    They had been sitting in Malone's for an hour and a half, trying  
    once again to drink slowly without being obvious about it.  
    They'd agreed not to go back to The Five Spot. Another visit  
    there would look like they were on a fishing expedition.  
      
    Mulder had been trying to keep himself amused watching the  
    ebb and flow of humanity that came through the place. He would  
    pick someone out and observe him or her carefully, mentally  
    building a psychological profile as though every passerby were   
    a potential serial killer. It was a morbid habit he had.  
      
    But as the alcohol had slowly soaked through his brain, his  
    alertness, and then his interest, had waned. They couldn't afford  
    to get seriously drunk, but they were forced to get bleary just  
    keep up appearances.  
      
    So for the last half hour, he'd been morosely watching ice melt,  
    seeing too much of himself in the fate of the shrinking cubes.  
      
    And then Scully piped up out of the blue.  
      
    "Bobby doesn't usually treat Mary so well," she said under her  
    breath.  
      
    "Oh, gimme a break, S..." She shot him a warning glance.  
    "Gimme a break," he repeated.  
      
    "We're too quiet. Too well-behaved," she muttered.  
      
    "Too bored is more like it," he replied.  
      
    She laughed, but it was loud and grating.  
      
    "Stop it," he hissed.  
      
    "Fuck you!" She was getting louder.  
      
    "Shut up," he whispered urgently.  
      
    "Make me!" She was yelling now.  
      
    "No."  
      
    "You're such a coward, Bobby."  
      
    "Stop it!"  
      
    "Fuck you!"  
      
    <Do it.>  
      
    <I can't.>  
      
    <You have to.>  
      
    "I'm warning you, Mary. Stop talking like that."  
      
    "And I suppose you're gonna make me?"  
      
    <Do it.>  
      
    <I can't.>  
      
    <You can.>  
      
    Mulder sprang to his feet. The sound of glasses clattering as his  
    legs hit the table was loud, but it was nothing compared to the  
    ear-splitting smack of his palm on the soft skin of her cheek.  
      
    Scully raised a hand to touch the place he'd struck. "You  
    bastard!"  
      
    <Are you okay?>  
      
    <I'm fine, Mulder.>  
      
    God, she said it even when she didn't. Conversations around  
    them resumed as Mulder sat back down.  
      
    "Hey, I'd be glad to take her off your hands."  
      
    Mulder turned to see Frank standing behind him. "Try it and I'll  
    kill you." The words came out with all the anger he felt at  
    himself for what he'd just done, for the situation that had made  
    him do it. For the fact that, for some disturbing reason, it had  
    actually made him feel better. Judging from Frank's reaction, he  
    was behaving quite convincingly. Damn Scully for being right.  
    Frank certainly looked like he believed Bobby to be a very  
    dangerous man.  
      
    "Sit down," Mulder said.  
      
    "Actually, I was gonna spring you from this lousy dive."  
      
    "Who says we need springing?"  
      
    "No one. But I got a friend wants to meet you."  
      
    "What are you, the social director on this cruise?"  
      
    "C'mon. I think you'll really like him."  
      
    "I don't wanna meet your fucking friend!"  
      
    Mulder caught a flash of fear in the beefy man's eyes. So. He  
    was under orders to produce them.  
      
    "Look, we can have a little party on the way. I got some great  
    blow."  
      
    Frank's ploy was so feeble, his tone so pleading, that Mulder  
    doubted Bobby would go for it.  
      
    Fortunately, he didn't have to.  
      
    "Oh, c'mon, baby. I haven't had any coke in ages," Scully put in.  
      
    "I said no!"  
      
    "Please?"  
      
    "Oh, okay."  
      
    The three of them headed for the door and emerged from the bar  
    into the soggy night.  
      
    "C'mon. This way." Frank led them into the sheltered doorway  
    of a nearby building. Huddled together in the dim yellow light  
    that spilled from a naked bulb just inside the door, Frank  
    produced a small glass tube from his shirt pocket. A tiny gold  
    spoon was attached to the cap by a short chain.  
      
    "Give it here," Scully said impatiently.  
      
    "No way. Last time I handed my stash to someone in the rain, he  
    dropped it and I watched $300 worth of Panama Blue melt into  
    the sidewalk." Frank unscrewed the cap himself and dipped the  
    spoon into the vial, then held it out to her.  
      
    Damn, Mulder thought. She could have faked it if he'd handed it  
    over. She didn't have much choice now. He wondered if she'd  
    ever snorted cocaine before.  
      
    She leaned over Frank's hand, closed her left nostril with her  
    finger and inhaled the little pile of white powder from the end of  
    the spoon.  
      
    Well I'll be damned, Mulder thought.  
      
    Frank dipped again and held the spoon out to him.  
      
    "No thanks," Mulder said.  
      
    Frank shrugged and offered it to Scully. She glanced sideways at  
    Mulder as she efficiently snorted the second dose.  
      
    Frank helped himself to two nostrils-full, and the tube  
    disappeared back into his shirt pocket.  
      
    "My car's this way," Frank said, starting off.  
      
    "We'll follow you." Mulder hoped that didn't sound too  
    suspicious, but he didn't relish getting stuck God knew where  
    with no means of transportation.  
      
    Frank just shrugged again. Obviously, all he cared about was  
    fulfilling his mission of bringing them to his "friend." He walked  
    off in the direction he'd indicated as Mulder and Scully headed  
    the other way.  
      
    "Where did you learn to do that?" Mulder asked when they were  
    out of earshot.  
      
    "I haven't always been an FBI agent, you know," she replied.  
      
    "You all right?"  
      
    "Fine. But I don't think I'll sleep for the next eight hours or so."  
      
    Twenty minutes later, they were pulling up in front of a  
    nondescript little house on an even more nondescript little street.   
    Frank was already out of his car and waiting for them.  
      
    "Oh, this looks really exciting," Mulder said with hostile  
    sarcasm. He was finding he had no trouble at all projecting a  
    really mean attitude tonight. He suspected that was exactly why  
    Scully had done what she'd done in making him hit her. It had  
    put him in one incredibly foul temper.  
      
    "Trust me, Bobby. You're gonna thank me for this. George  
    Flood is someone you wanna know."  
      
    They followed Frank to the front door and waited as he knocked.  
    A woman opened it, stepped aside wordlessly and admitted  
    them. She was middle-aged, tired-looking, worn at the edges,  
    with an air of studied detachment.  
      
    They entered the living room where a balding man of medium  
    height awaited them. At first glance, there was nothing in the  
    least remarkable about him. The man said nothing by way of  
    greeting.  
      
    Mulder took advantage of the momentary stand-off to observe  
    his surroundings. The place was as drab and shabby as the  
    people in it. The furniture was neither old nor new. It had that  
    ageless, Sears-Roebuck-tacky look. The room was lined with  
    bookcases that were filled floor to ceiling with volumes of every  
    description. Nowhere did Mulder's roving eye encounter a  
    television set.  
      
    Without introduction or preamble, the man walked up to Mulder  
    and stopped just inches from him.  
      
    "Did you do it?"  
      
    "Did I do what?"  
      
    "Did you kill those people?"  
      
    Mulder was caught off guard. He hadn't been expecting Flood to  
    come to the point so quickly.  
      
    Think. What would Bobby do?  
      
    "What the fuck kind of question is that?"  
      
    "One with a yes or no answer." This guy was good. Really good.  
      
    "Fuck you!" Mulder turned on his heel and headed toward the  
    door. "Come on, Mary. We're leaving."  
      
    "Stop!"  
      
    The one-word command yanked Mulder to a halt. There was an  
    almost irresistible authority in that voice, one that demanded  
    obedience. It was all he could do to keep from turning around.  
      
    "I'll take that as a yes," Flood said.  
      
    "Nobody asked you to take nothing," Mulder said, his back still  
    to the man.  
      
    "Why'd you do it?"  
      
    "Fuck you!"  
      
    "Oh, come on, Bobby. You can trust me." Flood's voice dripped  
    charm now, projecting a warm invitation to intimacy. Mulder  
    turned slowly.  
      
    "Why should I trust you?"  
      
    "Tell me why you did it. Don't worry. Nothing said here tonight  
    will ever leave these four walls."  
      
    Mulder shot a nervous glance in Frank's direction. Flood  
    understood, and Mulder thought he saw a glimmer of respect  
    flare in the man's eyes.  
      
    "You've done your job, Frank," Flood said. "You can go."  
      
    "But..."  
      
    "Now!"  
      
    Frank looked from Flood to Mulder, who just glared at him.  
    Defeated, he made his exit.  
      
    "You too, Alice." The woman disappeared upstairs.  
      
    "Now tell me," Flood said.  
      
    Scully had been standing off to the side, taking careful note of  
    everything. She was surprised when, in answer to the man's  
    question, Mulder moved behind her, his body pressing up against  
    her.  
      
    "I did it for her," Mulder said quietly.  
      
    "You mean to tell me a minister made a pass at your girl?"  
      
    "Not exactly." Mulder reached around her and cupped her face  
    in both hands, tilting her head up so the ceiling light shone full  
    on her. "What do you see?"  
      
    "She's quite lovely."  
      
    "Exactly. Look at the red of her lips. The deep blue of her eyes.  
    The perfect, white skin. This is a woman that makes a man want  
    to sire children on her, to see beautiful babies suck life from her  
    breast."  
      
    Scully's heart beat furiously. Mulder's voice had taken on a  
    hypnotic, singsong quality that frightened her.  
      
    "So you see," he went on, still holding her face tightly, "I had to  
    do it. That man ... that nigger ... I heard him on the radio. He  
    was talking about tolerating the mixing of the races. About  
    cross-breeding the colors. Now you look at my Mary. What  
    would the thought of a dark animal mounting her clean, white  
    body do to you?"  
      
    Flood approached the two of them and looked first in her eyes,  
    then in his.  
      
    "You have the calling," he whispered.  
      
    "I know what I know," Mulder replied. He suddenly realized  
    how hard he had been gripping Scully's face. Forcing himself to  
    relax, he slid his hands down to her shoulders. Only then did he  
    feel that she was trembling beneath his touch.  
      
    "It is a calling," Flood was saying. "And if you have it, I can  
    show you how to use it."  
      
    "We been getting along fine without you."  
      
    "But you're not making a difference. Do you think stopping one  
    nigger's mouth will change anything?"  
      
    "Well, it sure shut him up."  
      
    "Let's get out of here, Bobby," Scully interrupted in a voice as  
    smooth as glass despite the nervousness Mulder sensed in her.  
    "All this fancy talk is making me thirsty."  
      
    "Okay, baby." They headed for the door.  
      
    "Bobby," Flood said with the same authoritative tone he'd used  
    earlier. "You're not alone. There are others who feel as you do.  
    You and Mary could join in something that is much greater than  
    the sum of its parts."  
      
    "I don't know," Mulder said, suddenly eager to get out into the  
    bracing rain.  
      
    "Where are you staying?"  
      
    Mulder was strangely silent. Scully looked at him.  
      
    <Tell him.>  
      
    "Sunset Motel," Scully said as Mulder opened the door. He was  
    halfway down the path before she caught up with him.  
      
    __________________________  
      
    Scully stared at her reflection in the night-blackened car  
    window, the rain seeming to run down her somber face. She took  
    a deep, shaky breath. It's just an act, she told herself. An  
    elaborate game of make-believe.  
      
    But he had been so damn believable.  
      
    It hadn't really been a surprise. She'd seen this ability of his  
    before, this uncanny talent for tuning his mind to the wavelength  
    of madmen and psychopaths. She'd witnessed it a number of  
    times. And each time, it had scared the shit out of her.  
      
    Before she'd come along, before he'd begun work on the X files,  
    it had had been his life's work. His talent had been sharpened  
    like a straight razor to a brutal edge so that he could profile  
    serial killers with frightening -- and useful -- accuracy. From  
    time to time since then, he'd been called upon to do it again as an  
    expert consulted in especially difficult cases.  
      
    But never had she seen him become the madman so completely.  
    And never had the intensity of the madness been turned full on  
    her. The heat of the hatred he'd projected so convincingly had  
    burned her soul.  
      
    But the most disconcerting part was that it had been a stroke of  
    pure genius. The creativity of his little display, its shockingly  
    unconventional daring, had been utterly compelling. It had been  
    exactly what was needed to get past George Flood's suspicions.  
      
    She turned to look at him as he drove. He was wrapped up  
    entirely in himself, shielding himself from his own actions. Like  
    the survivor of some great disaster, he had entered a state of  
    shock --  not physical but moral.  
      
    She closed her eyes, trying to erase the memory of his iron grasp  
    and his foul words. She shook her head. No. They would be with  
    her forever.  
      
    She knew it was just as well. Because their success in this insane  
    endeavor depended entirely on their ability to act like -- no, to be  
    -- Bobby Gorman and Mary Deene.  
      
    All right, then. She would watch and learn. She knew what it  
    took out of him to do this. It wasn't like this was a walk in the  
    park for him, becoming a monster to snare a monster. He never  
    entered that moral gray area without maiming some part of his  
    soul. She marveled at his ability to overcome his terror and  
    plunge head first into a nightmare. She vowed not to let him go  
    there alone.  
      
    But she would never tell him he had become her guide in this. It  
    was a skill he'd never meant to teach her.  
      
    _______________________  
      
    Mulder listened to the sound of the shower, hearing the volume  
    and pitch change as Scully moved in and out of the water's flow.  
      
    If only she could wash away the stain of the words he'd poured  
    over her tonight. But that was impossible.  
      
    Long ago, he'd learned a secret, a key that could unlock the door  
    to any mind. Human motivation could be so well understood that  
    it could be used to anticipate action. Simply put, by knowing  
    what made someone tick, you could know what he'd do before  
    he did it. It was necessary to understand not only how that  
    person saw the world, but also how that person saw himself.  
      
    He had, it turned out, a genius for it. Still, it wasn't all talent. It  
    took practice. And Mulder had gotten lots of that by crawling  
    into the minds of psychopathic serial killers, necrophiliacs,  
    sadists, pedophiles and the like. The experience had taught him  
    the most frightening thing he would ever learn. Something more  
    shocking than the existence of extraterrestrials and malevolent  
    government conspiracies. He'd learned that no one, not even a  
    man who rapes, kills and mutilates small children, sees himself  
    as evil.  
      
    And to do the job, Mulder couldn't afford to see him that way,  
    either.  
      
    He'd tapped into that knowledge tonight in order to convince  
    Flood that Bobby Gorman and Mary Deene were his kind of  
    people. He'd allowed the passion of utterly righteous conviction  
    to take hold of him, and he'd use it to espouse a deeply rooted,  
    murderous hatred.  
      
    But what the hell had made him turn it all on Scully?  
      
    God. He'd spent most of his adult life avoiding intimacy for fear  
    that someone would notice that he had some really fucked up  
    personal boundary issues. He could sympathize with anyone,  
    even people who kept a few severed body parts in the freezer.  
      
    Then came Scully. He'd thought that side of him would  
    somehow disappear, or maybe she just wouldn't notice. Who the  
    fuck had he been trying to kid?  
      
    Shit. And he was going to help her through this nightmare? That  
    was like Jack the Ripper offering spiritual guidance to Joan of  
    Arc.  
      
    The shower stopped. She would be drying off in that efficient,  
    brisk manner of hers. She'd be out in under a minute, wrapped in  
    a terrycloth robe, a towel around her head. She'd open the  
    bathroom door, maybe say something  to him. He'd have to  
    answer. He'd have to decide whether to go to her or not; whether  
    to talk about it or not; whether to lie down in bed with her or...  
      
    Not.  
      
    As Scully opened the bathroom door, the room door closed  
    behind him.  
      
    _____________________  
      
    The ringing of the phone roused Scully from a not-very-restful  
    slumber. She had the vague sense that her dreams had not been  
    pleasant ones, though she could remember nothing about them.  
      
    She opened her eyes and felt a rush of anxiety as she realized  
    where she was, and that Mulder was not beside her. The phone  
    was still ringing. Maybe it was him.  
      
    "Hello?"  
      
    "Mary, this is George Flood."  
      
    She bolted upright, panicky. This was unexpected. She took a  
    moment to tell her heart to slow down, to force her mind to  
    focus.  
      
    "Mary? Are you there?"  
      
    Say something. "Umm ... yeah. I was sleeping."  
      
    "Oh. I'm sorry for waking you. Shall I call back?"  
      
    "No. I mean, I'm up now."  
      
    "Well, I felt that we didn't really finish our conversation last  
    night. And I was finding it very interesting. But I realize that you  
    and Bobby weren't expecting to be cross-examined. How about a  
    more relaxed meeting tonight?"  
      
    The door opened, distracting her. Mulder entered. When he saw  
    her on the phone, he threw her a quizzical look.  
      
    "Tonight?"  
      
    "Yes. You could come over for dinner."  
      
    "Umm ... yeah. I guess that would be okay. What time?"  
      
    "How about 7:30?"  
      
    "Okay. See you then." She hung up.  
      
    "That was Flood. We're invited for dinner." She caught the  
    guilty look that crossed his face. "You been out all night?"  
      
    "Yeah."  
      
    She got up and headed for the bathroom without another word.  
      
    ________________________  
    
    END 4/8  
    
      
    
    
    
    
    Caught in the Act III: Sub Rosa 5/8
    by Parrotfish  
    
    
    Silently, they retraced their route of the previous night, having  
    said little to each other all day. Scully had spent a couple of  
    hours in the afternoon running errands, ostensibly to give Mary  
    something of a public life. She'd even had her nails done,  
    something the real Scully had avoided for at least a decade.  
      
    Mulder suspected it was all more for the sake of getting out of  
    their oppressive motel room, where the morning had been spent  
    in such stimulating pursuits as reading, pacing, fidgeting and  
    avoiding conversation.  
      
    Ready to crawl out of his skin with the discomfort of it, Mulder  
    spoke. "Will you be okay tonight?"  
      
    "What's that supposed to mean?"  
      
    "Nothing. Just ... y'know ... can you handle it?"  
      
    "What makes you think I can't?" Her voice was strained, cold.  
      
    Damn. He wished he'd kept his mouth shut.  
      
    "Of course you can. It's just that last night I was ..." His voice  
    trailed away, and he just shrugged.  
      
    "You did your job. So did I. And we'll do it again tonight."  
      
    The job.  
      
    Other people had jobs. They went to an office and typed on  
    keyboards, or they went to a factory and put things together.  
    They taught, they talked, they drove, they dug, whatever. And  
    then they went home.  
      
    What he had wasn't a job. More like a curse.  
      
    They pulled up in front of the house and got out. Scully started  
    up the walk.  
      
    "Wait!"  
      
    She stopped, and he caught up.  
      
    "What?"  
      
    "Look ... whatever happens ... I ..."  
      
    "Not here," she said firmly, quietly.  
      
    "But I want you to know ..."  
      
    "Not here!" Her eyes darted toward the house. He looked up and  
    saw Flood's face watching them from a window.  
      
    As he closed the distance to the front door, he had a sneaking  
    hunch that he was about to learn the market value of his soul.  
      
    __________________________  
      
    It was getting late.  The evening had been grueling, not because  
    the conversation had been strained, but because it hadn't. Flood  
    had actually been rather amusing, talking knowledgeably about  
    auto racing, Lemington gossip and his various hobbies:  
    gardening, cooking, woodworking. He'd avoided asking them  
    much about themselves. Mulder found it hard to stay in  
    character when the conversation lulled him into complacency.  
    That was probably the point, he reminded himself.  
      
    Scully, he noted, had performed her part flawlessly. She'd  
    laughed at Flood's jokes, complimented his dinner (his wife,  
    who'd spent most of the evening on her feet serving, had  
    apparently prepared none of it), and chattered on about food,  
    cars and the boredom she found in towns like Lemington. All the  
    while, she'd maintained a coarseness, an inarticulateness that  
    were so utterly unlike her normal manner that he could almost  
    forget who was sitting across from him.  
      
    Flood's wife served coffee and disappeared into the kitchen, from  
    where sounds of dishes being washed emanated. Mulder was  
    beginning to think Flood had planned this evening merely to  
    observe them when the older man wrenched the conversation  
    around sharply.  
      
    "So have you thought about what I said last night?" It came out  
    of the blue, forcing Mulder to shift gears suddenly.  
      
    "Not really," he said.  
      
    Flood snickered. "Well, at least you're honest."  
      
    There was a long pause. Wait it out, Mulder told himself. Let  
    him lead. Don't appear eager.  
      
    "We need people like you," Flood said at last.  
      
    "Who's 'we'?"  
      
    The conversation had become convoluted, like one of those  
    video-game mazes, Mulder thought. If a player picks up the right  
    items along the way, takes the correct route, has enough energy  
    stored, the secret door will open.  
      
    "A group I belong to. The White Hand."  
      
    "So what is it?" Mulder asked, stepping through the suddenly  
    revealed opening and into the game's next level.  
      
    Flood began to speak, abandoning the cautious, cat-and-mouse  
    cadence of clipped queries for long, mellifluous, almost poetic  
    phrasing. Mulder let the tide of words carry him out, his mind  
    skimming along phrases like "reclaiming the nation," "restoring  
    the natural order," "defending racial honor."  
      
    It wasn't all that difficult, really. Flood was indeed good at this,  
    reminding Mulder of the first time he'd witnessed another classic  
    -- Leni Riefenstahl's "Triumph of the Will," the Nazi propaganda  
    film so compelling it had the power to stir the heart of the most  
    virulent anti-fascist. Like that film, Flood's words created  
    compelling images of power, belonging, order, community.  
    Mulder blanked his thoughts, dropped his guard, let the  
    monologue soak through his porous mind.  
      
    It took him a moment to realize Flood had stopped speaking.  
      
    ______________________________  
      
    Scully was of two minds at the dinner table.  
      
    One mind she kept firmly anchored, using it to gauge the  
    meaning and intent of George Flood's words and to send  
    instructions to her body to respond accordingly.  
      
    "...wrest control of our lives from cowardly forces who murdered  
    our allies at Waco..."  
      
    Nod, head.  
      
    "...when we will summon the masses to defend their birthright..."  
      
    Lungs, take shallow breaths.  
      
    "...united effort to restore the rightful place of white  
    womanhood..."  
      
    Shine brightly, eyes.  
      
    Her other mind floated free, observing, measuring, calculating,  
    interpreting, determining how much rehearsal such a monologue  
    must have required, what effect it aimed for, the level of its  
    author's intellectual powers. With this other mind, she also  
    watched her partner resonate responsively, as though he were an  
    emotional tuning fork humming to life with sympathetic  
    vibration.  
      
    When Flood stopped speaking, nothing remained in the room but  
    a gentle hum in Mulder's mental key. He looked for all the world  
    like a man whose soul had just been stirred -- probably because  
    it had. He could open himself up to any experience. Ever since  
    she'd figured that out about him, it had frightened her. But never  
    more so than tonight.  
      
    She glanced at Flood and saw that he, too, was keenly aware of  
    Mulder's response. You've got him, boy.  
      
    One mind was relieved. The other was horrified.  
      
    "Join us," Flood was saying. "We are already soldiers in the  
    same cause."  
      
    "I wish I could put it like you do," Mulder said. "You just said  
    everything I been thinking."  
      
    "Then join us. Work with us. We could use you. Both of you."  
    His eyes darted to include her as an afterthought. She realized he  
    assumed she would follow wherever her man led.  
      
    Love those old-fashioned family values, she thought.  
      
    "If I say yes, what exactly would I be saying yes to?"  
      
    Scully realized she was grinding her teeth in frustration. Christ,  
    he was drawing this out. She wanted to get it over with, make  
    the deal, learn the secret club handshake and get the hell out of  
    there.  
      
    "The same kind of work you've been doing -- like the service  
    you did with that preacher. Only there'd be a purpose ... an  
    organization. You'd be a soldier in a powerful army. An army  
    that needs you."  
      
    "I'd like that. I'd like to be part of an army that I could believe in.  
    I want to believe."  
      
    She couldn't help it. She sucked in her next breath so hard she  
    coughed.  
      
    "You all right, Mary?" Flood asked.  
      
    "Yeah," she croaked, taking a sip of water. "It's just ... this is all  
    so exciting."  
      
    "Yeah," Mulder said, glaring at her. "It sure is." He turned his  
    attention back to Flood. "So when do we start? What do we do?"  
      
    "Something to symbolize the bright blaze of your new  
    commitment. A fire..."  
      
    Scully felt her stomach turn over.  
      
    _________________________  
      
    "What the hell were you thinking, Scully?" Mulder raised his  
    voice as he paced the length of their motel room agitatedly.  
      
    "Just doing my job." She hadn't meant to throw it in his teeth, but  
    it came out that way.  
      
    "We can't fake this. He'd catch on in a minute. He's not stupid."  
      
    "I know that. We're not going to fake it. At least, not entirely."  
      
    "We're not."  
      
    "No."  
      
    "We're going to torch an orphanage."  
      
    "Yes."  
      
    Mulder stared at her, and for the first time in a very long time,  
    she couldn't read what was behind his eyes. Fear? Certainly a  
    possibility. Mulder was terrified of fire. Anger? No doubt,  
    although she wasn't sure why, exactly. Disgust?  
      
    She forced her train of thought to derail.  
      
    "It won't be enough to destroy the building, y'know. If no one  
    gets hurt, he'll be suspicious."  
      
    "So we make sure it doesn't look suspicious."  
      
    "How?"  
      
    "We make sure someone dies in the fire."  
      
    "You want to plant a body."  
      
    "Yes." She suspected he'd known what she had in mind all along.  
      
    "And where do you plan to get it?"  
      
    "Mulder, we're working with the CIA here. These guys have  
    pulled off some of the biggest deceptions in history -- or so you  
    would have me believe. You don't think they can provide the  
    body of an African-American child and make sure the autopsy  
    shows smoke inhalation as the cause of death?"  
      
    He made no reply, just stood staring at her, his arms crossed,  
    shoulders held high and tight, face drawn into a slight frown. His  
    body language telegraphed a level of anxiety she had not  
    expected. Why was he so shocked?  
      
    Her own words came back to her. The body of a child. Of  
    course. Mulder, who had lost an eight-year-old sister to an  
    unknown fate, recoiled at the notion of intentionally desecrating  
    the body of a child.  
      
    It was ironic, she thought. She, with her Catholic-school  
    upbringing, had less trouble with it than he. How could it bother  
    her? She cut up dead people for a living, and all because she  
    believed that science and pragmatism took precedence over  
    personal belief or religious conviction. She'd long ago concluded  
    that the attachment of any significance whatsoever to an empty,  
    lifeless shell was mere superstition.  
      
    But not Mulder, who lived every day of his life in terror that a  
    small body would turn up somewhere and be identified as  
    Samantha. In a way, the loss that lay at the heart of his character  
    took the form of a child's body that was neither alive nor dead.  
    Just gone.  
      
    "It has to be done, Mulder," she said quietly. "You've hooked  
    him. Now we have to reel him in."  
      
    She saw him struggle to swallow, imagined the dry, choking  
    sensation in his throat. She thought for a moment he might gag.  
      
    "Fine," he said at last, his voice utterly devoid of emotion. "Call  
    the contact."  
      
    ____________________  
      
    Scully lay on the motel room bed, one arm bent across her eyes  
    to block out the glare of the bright ceiling light. She was tired,  
    her body limp and slightly sweat-dampened.  
      
    "Again," Mulder said from his place next to her.  
      
    "I don't think I can," she said. "I haven't recovered from the last  
    time."  
      
    "You wanted to do this, Scully. It was your idea. We'll do it as  
    many times as it takes to get it right."  
      
    They'd been reviewing the plan step by step through most of the  
    night, until the words had ceased to mean anything to her. They  
    had no choice. Flood had given them very little time to prepare --  
    just 24 hours. That had been clever of him. He obviously wanted  
    to make it difficult for them to do exactly what they were doing - 
    - organize a deception. She could only hope he underestimated  
    the resources at their disposal.  
      
    But even if they pulled this off, there was still so much left to  
    chance. Would Flood confide in them the boy's whereabouts? If  
    he did, then what? They'd have to...  
      
    "Scully? I asked you a question."  
      
    "Hmm? Oh, sorry. What?"  
      
    Mulder glared at her evenly with the same cold eyes he'd turned  
    on her ever since they'd started planning this little bonfire party.  
      
    "We pull the alarm. What's our next move?"  
      
    So it had been going throughout the night, drilling the details  
    over and over. So it continued into the early-morning hours, both  
    of them reciting their lessons mechanically, taking care to put  
    into the exercise only as much thought as was required to get the  
    job done and no more. More could be dangerous, and they had  
    no time for that kind of danger right now.  
      
    Except she was so tired, and her mind had started to wander.  
      
    "I ... I ... For God's sake, Mulder, I need to get some sleep. I'm  
    not going to be any good to anyone if I can't see straight."  
      
    "Not until it's perfect." His voice was cold and sharp as a razor's  
    edge.  
      
    "But..."  
      
    "Do it!"  
      
    "All right!" she said, her voice raised nearly to a yell. "All right."  
    She forced herself to speak more calmly. "After we pull the  
    alarm, we go upstairs...."  
      
    She doubted the invasion of Normandy was planned any more  
    carefully than the attack on the First Baptist Home for Children.  
    But she had to admit it -- Mulder was right. He had said with  
    certainty that Flood wasn't likely to rely on media reports and  
    word of mouth. He would be at the scene somewhere, hidden,  
    watching. Any deception would have to be meticulously planned  
    and flawlessly executed in order to succeed under his very nose.  
      
    She took a deep breath and dug down deep, searching for some  
    hidden reserve of energy.  
      
    "I go upstairs to the main hallway..."  
      
    The first sliver of red-gold sun peeked over the horizon at that  
    moment, but neither agent noticed.  
      
    ________________________  
      
    They walked the quarter-mile from the diner in silence, each  
    carrying a small backpack. They could have parked closer, but a  
    strange car on a semi-suburban street stood a much greater  
    chance of being noticed than one in the parking lot of an all- 
    night eatery.  
      
    They arrived at their destination at 3:02 AM exactly, by  
    Mulder's watch. The large, old house was dark, except for dim  
    hall lights that glowed faintly through a few small, centrally  
    placed windows. Just enough illumination to guide little feet  
    safely to the bathroom and back to bed, Mulder thought.  
      
    He glanced up and down the street. No sign of the observer he  
    felt sure must be there. Still, he could almost feel Flood's eyes on  
    him.  
      
    The back door lock made easy picking. All was still and silent  
    inside. Nothing suspicious. For a moment, Mulder felt a surge of  
    panic. They had left instructions on the supposedly secure voice  
    mailbox at the contact number. They had no way of knowing  
    whether those instructions had been received, let alone followed.  
      
    They moved toward the kitchen, twin, narrow flashlight beams  
    showing the way. They had studied the blueprints carefully and  
    could have found the basement door in the dark, had it been  
    necessary.  
      
    Scully reached it first and tried the knob. It turned easily. Mulder  
    released a tiny sigh of relief. Under normal circumstances, the  
    door would have been locked to prevent small children from  
    wandering through and tumbling downstairs.  
      
    They walked noiselessly down. Mulder could see nothing of  
    Scully ahead other than the beam from the light she held, her  
    black clothes blending in totally with the pitch darkness around  
    her. She didn't hesitate at the bottom of the stairs but walked  
    directly to a far corner of the basement. He followed.  
      
    She stopped, shining her light left and right. It should be right  
    here. Where...  
      
    There.  Her light fell on a lumpy tarp covering something on the  
    ground. Leaning down, he pulled it back to reveal the form of a  
    small, lifeless child. A boy, he noted. Maybe five years old.  
    Somebody's son.  
      
    "Go," came a whisper in the dark. He realized he'd been standing  
    and staring.  
      
    She was right. He lifted the little body gently. It weighed  
    nothing. Less than nothing.  
      
    "Go," came the whisper again. He headed for the stairs. As he  
    reached them, he heard a zipper being opened behind him, then  
    the sound of a liquid gurgling from a can. The plan called for  
    Scully to do the basement first. There had to be some smoke  
    before the alarm went off to make it look convincing. And there  
    was no point in him doing it. When they'd worked the whole  
    thing out, Scully had stated it matter-of-factly: "I'll start the  
    basement while you plant the body upstairs." He'd known what  
    she was thinking. No point putting him anywhere near open  
    flames any more than was absolutely necessary.  
      
    And he hadn't argued the point. She was right.  
      
    He reached the second floor and nearly dropped his small load  
    when a nearby shadow seemed to move. He ordered his  
    pounding heart to slow down as he recognized the shape to be a  
    large, matronly black woman. She'd obviously been waiting for  
    him. She nodded to him as their eyes made contact in the  
    dimness.  
      
    Good job, central casting, Mulder thought. He knew that what  
    passed for large and matronly in a housecoat and slippers was in  
    fact a strong, capable rescue specialist, in position and ready to  
    move at a moment's notice.  
      
    The dim hallway was lined with doors, all closed. He went  
    straight to the third one on the left, shifted the slight weight he  
    carried and turned the knob. This door, too, opened easily.  
      
    This time, he didn't jump at the silent figure waiting inside -- a  
    young man, also black. This home was, after all, sponsored by  
    the black Baptist churches in the area. It was a place where kids  
    with no families to care for them could find safe haven.  
      
    Safe haven...  
      
    He gave himself a mental shake. Stop it. No thinking. Stick to  
    the plan.  
      
    He noted with satisfaction that one of the two beds in the room  
    was empty but rumpled. Later, it would be assumed that the little  
    boy in his arms had occupied it. He could barely make out a  
    small form breathing steadily in the other bed.  
      
    He crossed the room and quietly opened the closet door, knelt  
    down and gently laid the body in the corner. The closet had been  
    Scully's idea. As a forensic pathologist, she knew that people  
    tended to panic in fires and try to hide themselves in tight,  
    enclosed spaces. Nice touch, he thought wryly.  
      
    He stood, closed the closet door, nodded to the watching stranger  
    and left.  
      
    Downstairs, he ran into Scully coming up from the basement,  
    their timing perfect. Together, they moved to the front room,  
    which was used as the main play area. They had chosen this  
    room as the only one they would ignite on the ground floor  
    because it was farthest from both the front and back exits.  
    Mulder took off his backpack and removed the can of lighter  
    fluid. Scully still had hers out. They squirted the furniture  
    carefully so as not to wet the floors or walls. The upholstered  
    items would create a lot of smoke, but it would take a while for  
    the room itself to catch, giving the house's occupants extra time  
    to escape.  
      
    When they were done, Mulder reached into his pocket for the  
    matches. He pulled one from the book and stood holding it. Only  
    when Scully came up and took it from him did he realize he  
    hadn't yet struck it. His heart was pounding furiously. His  
    darkness-adjusted eyes saw her head nod toward the hallway. He  
    went and stationed himself by the alarm box.  
      
    The sudden flare of light that jumped through the playroom door  
    startled him with its brightness, and for a moment he felt a  
    profound terror that Scully wouldn't be coming out. Her  
    appearance in the doorway did little to still the rushing blood in  
    his ears.  
      
    He collected as much of his wits as he could muster and pulled  
    the lever. A shrill whoop split the air, and bright emergency  
    lights shattered the night. He imagined the fright on the faces of  
    the suddenly awakened children upstairs.  
      
    The last step had to be accomplished in the space of a minute.  
    He and Scully ran for the stairs.  
      
    The young man Mulder had seen earlier stood in the now  
    brightly illuminated hallway, holding a small, crying boy tightly  
    in his arms -- no doubt the one Mulder had seen earlier sleeping  
    peacefully. Up and down the hallway, doors were beginning to  
    open. An adult stood in each. Mulder heard snippets of clear,  
    firmly spoken words. "Put your shoes on  now ... Put your  
    sweaters on ... Wait for instructions ..."  
      
    The two agents dashed into the third room on the left and  
    emptied their cans. Quick as a flash, Scully struck a match. The  
    bed went up in a lick of flame. Mulder was frozen to the spot.  
    The next thing he knew, he was being shoved hard, and then he  
    was through the door and out of the room.  
      
    As he ran for the stairs, he saw the adults standing in the  
    doorways, watching. Behind each of them, he knew, stood some  
    terrified children eager to flee. They were being held back in  
    order to allow the two arsonists to make their escape first.  
      
    He and Scully were down the stairs and out the door in five  
    seconds flat.  
      
    Fifteen seconds later, they were crouched in the bushes.  
      
    And ten seconds after that, people began pouring out of the  
    house.  
      
    "Oh my God! Fire! Help! Fire!"  
      
    The men and women who had stood so calmly in the presence of  
    the flames moments ago now sent up hysterical cries as they  
    herded the children outside. Mulder noticed the contrast between  
    the organized way they evacuated the children and the sharp  
    panic in their voices.  
      
    Damn, they were good. They might just pull this off after all.  
      
    ________________________  
    
    END 5/8
    
    Caught in the Act III: Sub Rosa 6/8
    by Parrotfish   
    
    
    The pavement pounded his body with every step. He focused on 
    the pinpoint of pain behind his right kneecap, willed it to grow 
    and envelop his body and his mind, to blot out all  memory and 
    thought. His legs pumped like jackhammers, as though they 
    would break the cement surface if it didn't break him first. Sweat 
    streamed down his face and neck, the rivulets tickling his chest 
    hairs beneath the soaked T-shirt. It had been dark when he'd 
    started, but now a thin, watery light crept from the eastern sky, 
    not so much an assertion of day as a recession of night. 
     
    He had no idea how many miles it had been or what he had 
    passed along the way. But now the glaring motel sign was 
    coming up fast, and he knew it was over. He couldn't run 
    forever. 
     
    As he slowed to a walk and approached their room, he hoped she 
    was asleep. He couldn't stand to see her as she had been when he 
    left, looking at him with hurt betrayal as she realized he was 
    going to run, to leave her alone again. He was supposed to be 
    there for her, to be strong for her. To know her even when she 
    did not know herself. You fucking hypocrite, he thought. You 
    don't even know yourself. 
     
    He opened the door and saw her sitting cross-legged on the bed, 
    wet from the shower, wearing only panties and T-shirt. 
     
    Looking at him.  
     
    Stop looking at me. 
     
    The television was on, and he gradually became aware of the 
    images on the screen. Fire. People running. Flashing lights. He 
    heard the urgent authority of the reporter's narration. Orphanage. 
    Arson suspected. One victim. 
     
    He crossed the room and turned it off. 
     
    "I wanted to see it." 
     
    "I didn't," he snapped. 
     
    "Mulder, we should know what they're saying. Bobby and Mary 
    would watch it." 
     
    "Fuck Bobby and Mary." 
     
    "Mulder..." 
     
    "Stop it, Scully! Stop it!" He was yelling at her, advancing on 
    her, edging closer to the bed, looming over her with his rage and 
    his disgust and his shame and his panic. He'd thought he could 
    do it. Whatever it took. But when the time came, where was his 
    strength? Where was his confidence? 
     
    Why wouldn't she stop looking at him like that? 
     
    "What do you see, Scully? What are you looking at?" 
     
    "What? Nothing." 
     
    "Nothing? That's right. Nothing." There was a rage building in 
    him, both blind and blinding. He felt it start with a twist in his 
    gut and blossom out, knotting muscles as it went, making him 
    rigid and hard. He stood glaring down at her and realized the 
    hardness had crept into every part of him. 
     
    His right hand shot out and grabbed her arm, gripping it hard. 
     
    "Nothing!" 
     
    His left hand followed, gripping her other arm, and he pulled her 
    up onto her knees facing him. 
     
    "Nothing." He was not shouting now. 
     
    "Nothing matters," he hissed. "We didn't do a damn thing 
    tonight. Nothing." 
     
    And then he moved a hand to her hair and gripped it just as 
    tightly as he'd held her arm, pulled hard, yanking her head back, 
    and then he was kissing her, but it wasn't so much kissing as 
    demanding, devouring. 
     
    He felt her tense, try to struggle away from him. To his horror, 
    he found his hands gripping tighter, pushing her backward onto 
    the bed, following her down. He groped for her wrists and 
    yanked them up over her head, gathered them into one strong 
    hand and held them with all his might, pinning her. His body 
    pressed down on hers, an immovable wall against which she 
    squirmed. Vaguely, somewhere in the back of his fogged brain, 
    he was mortified to find her movements aroused him even more. 
     
    He brought his mouth back to hers and plunged his tongue 
    inside, half expecting her to bite him. If his thoughts had been 
    clear he might not have taken that chance, but he was beyond 
    caring, beyond worrying. 
     
    Nothing. 
     
    He raised his hips slightly, opening a small space between them, 
    slid his hand in and pushed her panties aside. Without pausing to 
    think, he shoved three fingers inside her. The hot, soft walls of 
    her cunt wrapped around half his hand and made him grunt 
    urgently into her mouth. 
     
    He rotated his wrist so his fingers moved inside her, pressing 
    against the sides of her tight passage. He moved his head down 
    to her breast, wrapped his lips around the tip through the thin 
    cotton fabric, and bit. 
     
    Her hips bucked against his hand, and a gush of creamy heat slid 
    into his palm. 
     
    It was more than he could stand. 
     
    He pulled his hand from her and grappled with the string of his 
    running shorts. His clumsy, wet fingers finally managed to undo 
    the knot and yank the elastic waist down his hips. His erection 
    sprang free. 
     
    Don't do this don't do this don't do this don't do this his brain 
    screamed, even as he yanked her panties aside again and pushed 
    himself into her with all his force. 
     
    Stop this now, he thought. This wasn't one of their little control 
    games.  
     
    But it was too late. Mind and cock both hardened by pure rage, 
    he pumped himself into her. After the first, wildly uncontrolled 
    few thrusts, he slowed somewhat, set up a deliberate, forceful 
    rhythm.  
     
    And he watched her. She lay beneath him like a taut rubber 
    band, arms pulled up, legs splayed wide. Eyes wide open. 
     
    Come on, he thought. Show me. 
     
    Pump. 
     
    Show me what you really think. 
     
    Pump. 
     
    Let me see it in your eyes. 
     
    Pump. 
     
    Give it to me. 
     
    Pump. 
     
    Hate me. Fear me. Pity me. 
     
    Pump. 
     
    Show me, damn it, show me, I dare you, show it to me. Throw it 
    back at me the way I'm pumping it into you the way I'm pushing 
    it into you the way I'm fucking it into you the way I'm doing it to 
    you show me show me show me DAMN IT! 
     
    He came inside her and still he watched her watching him. 
     
    And then his balls were empty and his cock was done twitching 
    inside her, and he realized one hand ached with the iron grip he'd 
    kept on her wrists, and the fingers of the other hand were curled 
    into the soft flesh of her thigh, holding her open, and his jaw hurt 
    from clenching his teeth, and she was still looking at him, just 
    looking, and... 
     
    Oh, Jesus Christ. Oh God. Oh God. What have I done? 
     
    He backed off of her and stumbled to his feet. 
     
    "Scully ... oh my God ..." 
     
    Reeling, he lurched toward the bathroom, barely making it 
    before heaving the meager contents of his stomach into the toilet. 
    It felt like he might regurgitate his own heart. He wished he 
    could. 
     
    __________________________ 
     
    >From nowhere, a warm, strong hand touched Mulder's forehead, 
    lifting it up and away from the toilet seat. He jerked away, 
    rolling on his side into a corner of the bathroom. 
     
    "Don't touch me," he rasped through a throat raw with the 
    burning of his own stomach acid. 
     
    "Mulder..." 
     
    "Get out now. Go call the police." 
     
    "Jesus, Mulder, you're such a piece of work. We can't call the 
    police, remember?" 
     
    "Then do it after. When we're done." He wasn't making much 
    sense, and he knew it. But why wouldn't she leave? 
     
    Scully sank to the bathroom floor, her back to the wall, legs 
    crossed. He could see the wetness of what he'd done to her 
    soaking through the crotch of her panties. 
     
    "Get out, Scully," he mumbled. 
     
    "No! I'm not going anywhere. Stop this, Mulder. Stop it now." 
     
    "Stop what? It's too late. God, what have I done?" 
     
    "What did you just do, Mulder? Go on, say it." 
     
    "I ... Oh, God, Scully, what don't you just go?" 
     
    "Say it!" 
     
    "I ... raped you." 
     
    "You raped me?" 
     
    There was absolute silence as the words bounced off the tiled 
    walls. He didn't answer. 
     
    "Define it," she said at last. 
     
    "What?" 
     
    "Define rape, Agent Mulder. Come on. Can't your superman 
    memory come up with something as simple as that?" 
     
    "Rape..." He began to speak mechanically "...the crime of 
    forcing another person to submit involuntarily to sexual 
    intercourse..." 
     
    "Involuntarily!" She threw it back at  him angrily. "Mulder, did I 
    just resist you?" 
     
    "You ... at first..." 
     
    "If someone raped me, Mulder, do you think there would be any 
    doubt about the involuntary nature of my participation? Do you 
    honestly think I would just lie there? You know me better than 
    that." Her voice had softened. She crawled across the floor to 
    him, gently lifted his head and lay it on her lap. "The real 
    question is, why is that what you thought it was?" 
     
    His eyes slid shut as he soaked in her presence with guilty relief. 
    "God, Scully, don't you see? It would have been. I couldn't have 
    stopped myself." 
     
    "Bullshit." She said it angrily, but even in his addled state, he 
    heard a weary resignation behind it, as though she didn't really 
    expect to convince him. "You don't know that, Mulder. The fact 
    is, I wasn't resisting. Okay? I was willing. I consented. It wasn't 
    rape." 
     
    He sat up slowly, painfully, his gut still twisted with nausea, and 
    faced her. 
     
    "But why didn't you, Scully?" 
     
    She wondered for a moment whether it was confusion or regret 
    she heard. Did he really hate himself so much that he wished she 
    had resisted him, just so he could punish himself with even more 
    self-loathing? Just so she would abandon him, leave him alone to 
    suffer? 
     
    "Because I didn't want to resist. Because you needed something, 
    and I gave it to you. Although I think maybe what I really did 
    was take something from you. Something you would have used 
    to hurt yourself." 
     
    He sat staring at her, just staring, for a long time, until she 
    thought his gaze would bore a hole through her head. 
     
    _____________________________ 
     
    They had barely fallen into an exhausted slumber when the call 
    had come. At the time, they had had only the vaguest notion of 
    what to expect. 
     
    But the moment Scully entered George Flood's living room that 
    evening, she knew. 
     
    The banner on the wall. The circle of seats. The gathering of 
    men. The table and chair at the center. The compressor. 
     
    Mulder was whisked away by two men as soon as they arrived. 
    She stood in the doorway, unsure what to do, when Flood 
    approached her. 
     
    "Welcome. You did very well last night." 
     
    "Thank you." 
     
    "I hope you won't be offended that Bobby will be the center of 
    attention her tonight. It's not that we don't appreciate your good 
    work, but we have no intention of turning our women into 
    footsoldiers. You understand." 
     
    "Sure." 
     
    Oh God, she thought. Not this. Don't do this to him. Anything 
    but this. 
     
    "Won't you have a seat?" He waved toward a chair on the rim of 
    the circle, and she sat. The others followed her lead. She was 
    barely aware that Frank sat beside her. 
     
    "This is a big night," he said. 
     
    A dark night, she thought. But his words served to shake her out 
    of her daze. She reminded herself there was still a job to do. 
     
    She looked around the room. About fifteen men sat around the 
    circle. She was the only woman. She forced her eyes to pause on 
    each face, trying to commit it to memory. She wished she could 
    do it as easily as Mulder did. 
     
    The men were silent and wore serious expressions. Most were 
    young, in their 20's, and looked like they belonged to a blue-
    collar world. 
     
    Her observation was interrupted by Flood's entrance into the 
    center of the circle. He carried a plain, wooden staff, which he 
    tapped three times on the floor. 
     
    "Let's begin," he said. 
     
    Two men appeared in the doorway and led Mulder into the 
    circle. He was stripped to the waist, wearing only his jeans. The 
    men left him there and went to stand against the wall. Scully 
    wondered what the group would make of the gunshot scar in his 
    shoulder -- the one she had inflicted on him when he'd been 
    ready to shoot that rat bastard Krycek. They'd probably see it as 
    an enhancement to his image as a formidably dangerous man.  
     
    "Sit down," Flood said, indicating the chair by the table in the 
    center of the circle. When Mulder was seated, Flood moved to 
    stand before him and held the staff out. 
     
    "Place your left hand on the rod of authority," he instructed. 
    Mulder complied, grasping the stick just below where Flood held 
    it. His face was blank. 
     
    Rod of authority, Scully found herself thinking. Boys with toys. 
     
    "Do you pledge yourself to your country?" Flood began. 
     
    "Yes." 
     
    "Do you pledge yourself to your race?" 
     
    "Yes." 
     
    "Do you pledge yourself to victory?" 
     
    "Yes." 
     
    "Do you pledge yourself to the White Hand?" 
     
    "Yes." 
     
    Four times Mulder said "yes," the word falling from him 
    lifelessly, his tone and manner betraying nothing. 
     
    "You have shown your loyalty in deed and pledged it in word. 
    Now you will bear it on your body as a mark of honor." 
     
    Another man entered the circle carrying a chair, which he set 
    down to Mulder's left. He was a surprisingly mild-looking 
    fellow, middle-aged, with crinkly eyes and thick glasses. He 
    looked like someone's favorite teacher or the nice storekeeper 
    who handed out free penny candies. He reached over to the tray, 
    picked up a tool and set to work on the arm Mulder still 
    stretched before him, grasping the staff. 
     
    For nearly an hour, the room was dead silent except for the whir 
    of the machine. For nearly an hour, Mulder stared straight ahead 
    without moving a muscle. For nearly an hour, Flood stood 
    before him, his hand resting on top of the staff. 
     
    For nearly an hour, Scully watched in carefully veiled horror as 
    the shape of an eagle formed on Mulder's skin, and on its breast, 
    a swastika. 
     
    When it was over, the other men surrounded him, offering hearty 
    words of welcome and slaps on the back as though he'd just 
    made it through a fraternity hazing and was now one of the boys. 
    He said very little, just nodded and shook hands and drank what 
    he was offered. 
     
    Later, as they drove back to their motel, she tried to think of 
    something to say. 
     
    You can have it removed. The laser procedure is totally 
    effective, especially when the tattoo is fresh. At least the needle 
    was clean. I saw him rip the seal on the package. Thank God 
    that's over with. It's just a tattoo, Mulder. It isn't you. 
     
    In the end, she said nothing. Neither did he. 
     
    ___________________________ 
     
    Boozing alone -- again. Whatever would your mother say, Dana 
    Katherine? 
     
    A couple of days earlier, she might have smiled at the thought. 
    Now it was just unnerving. She was tired and anxious and sick 
    to death of the whole damn thing. 
     
    And worried. Really worried. 
     
    Mulder had stayed out most of the night after his "initiation." He 
    wouldn't tell her where he'd been when she asked -- just replied 
    with a vague, "Around." She suspected that was true. He'd 
    probably spent the night driving, listening to his inner demons as 
    they fed noisily on the rotted remains of his self-respect. 
     
    And then, with the daylight, four men had arrived who'd said 
    they were taking him for "training." 
     
    God knew what that meant. But it couldn't be good. 
     
    So she'd come out alone tonight, if for no other reason than 
    because that's what Mary would do. 
     
    God, Dana Scully was getting to hate Mary Deene with every 
    ounce of her being. Which was especially ironic considering that, 
    at the moment, Dana Scully was Mary Deene. 
     
    No. I'm not. 
     
    Aren't you? She thought about that. Here she was, sitting where 
    Mary would sit, drinking what Mary would drink, wearing what 
    Mary would wear. If someone were to speak to her, he would 
    address her as Mary, and she would reply as Mary. 
     
    And, of course, given half a chance, she would espouse the white 
    supremacist ideology that Mary held dear. 
     
    So what difference did it make if she wasn't really Mary Deene? 
    No one else knew that. 
     
    Jesus, Dana, she thought, slugging back some more of Mary's 
    bourbon. You're not making any sense. 
     
    She hadn't really realized how hard this was going to be on her. 
    How much of herself she'd lose in it. And if it was this difficult 
    for her, how hard must it be for Mulder? 
     
    Mulder, whose uncanny ability to internalize the thought 
    processes of others made him a crack criminal profiler. 
     
    Mulder, who had been forced to do things that terrified him in 
    order to prove that he was in fact the homicidal racist he made 
    himself out to be. 
     
    Mulder, who was now branded with the mark of that person. 
     
    Mulder, who was losing himself right before her eyes. 
     
    God. The poor son of a bitch had actually promised to be her 
    anchor through all this. And she fully believed that's exactly 
    what he had intended to be. The only problem was that, as 
    anchors went, he was a lightweight. In fact, once you factored in 
    his self-doubt, low self-esteem and massive guilt complex, you 
    were left with an acorn tied to a string. 
     
    Not that she had expected anything different, she mused, 
    polishing off the last of the bourbon in her glass. She knew all 
    this about him, weighed it against his selflessness, his loyalty, his 
    passion and his humor, and found in the mix a man she could 
    accept and love despite himself. The trouble was that he couldn't. 
     
    "Penny for your thoughts?" 
     
    Scully nearly jumped out of her skin when a voice intruded on 
    her very private musings, almost as if she were afraid she'd 
    spoken them out loud. 
     
    "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. Mind if I sit down?" 
     
    Before she could answer, Frank slid into the booth. She was 
    thankful he chose the bench across from her this time. 
     
    "You worried about Bobby?" 
     
    "Umm ... yeah," she stumbled, disconcerted. 
     
    "Well, don't be. He'll be fine. We've all been through the 
    training. It's just to make you feel a part of the whole thing, 
    y'know?" 
     
    "Yeah. I guess so," she said, recovering somewhat. "He's a big 
    boy. He can take care of himself." 
     
    "Yeah. Try not to worry. Bobby's not an ordinary guy." Scully's 
    eyes snapped to his. There was something about the way he said 
    it -- an odd sincerity -- that alarmed her. Had he meant anything 
    beyond the obvious? Did he suspect something? 
     
    Before she had a chance to think it through, he was speaking 
    again, distracting her with idle chatter about some party that was 
    planned for the weekend. She forced herself to make the 
    appropriate responses. 
     
    "Y'know, you and Bobby should come. A lot of people are 
    gonna be there." 
     
    "Oh yeah? Like who?" 
     
    "Oh, y'know. A lot of the guys who were there last night. And 
    some others." 
     
    This was getting interesting. A party might be just the place to 
    pick up some stray information. People drank, their tongues 
    were loosened. 
     
    "I suppose I could stand a little celebration," she said, trying to 
    sound enthusiastic at the prospect. 
     
    She figured she must have succeeded when Frank smiled 
    broadly. "Great! Y'know, all the guys have been wanting to meet 
    you. It's not like there are too many girls who can do what you 
    did the other night. Especially not ones who look as hot as you." 
     
    "Yeah, well, that's why I don't hang around with girls too much. 
    They're wimps." 
     
    "Yeah. I know what you mean. Like, I was just talkin' to this one 
    guy, Joey Francis, and he was asking me about you. Wanted to 
    know if a girl with balls is still a girl." 
     
    Scully laughed. "What did you tell him?" 
     
    Frank crooked a finger at her, inviting her closer. She leaned 
    across the table, and he brought his lips to her ear. "I told him 
    you was all woman," he whispered. "One hundred percent." 
     
    She laughed again and leaned back. "Damn straight," she said. 
     
    Frank suddenly turned serious again and looked her straight in 
    the eye. "You'd like Joey," he said. "George likes Joey. Trusts 
    him. Tells him stuff he don't tell the rest of us. Joey could really 
    go for a girl like you." 
     
    And then Frank was off on other topics, and the strange light was 
    gone from his eyes. Scully wondered if she'd really seen anything 
    there at all. 
     
    _________________________ 
     
    White is right. 
     
    He'd repeated those three words at least a hundred times in a 
    day. He'd shouted them on the top of his lungs, replied to a dozen 
    questions with them, chanted them in time with the rest of the 
    "trainees." 
     
    Three stupid little words that now refused to leave his head. 
     
    White is right through the obstacle course, pushing you up and 
    over the wall, through the mud, across the rope. 
     
    White is right in hand-to-hand combat, the reason you get up off 
    the mat after slamming it really hard. 
     
    And on the shooting range... 
     
    BANG! 
     
    White is right. 
     
    BANG! 
     
    White is right. 
     
    BANG! 
     
    Enough already. 
     
    As a psychologist, Mulder had little difficulty recognizing basic 
    brainwashing techniques. A message repeated over and over 
    again while the mind and body are hammered to the point of 
    exhaustion is wedged under the protective layers of 
    consciousness and conscience. 
     
    Mulder didn't believe the words now any more than he did in the 
    morning, but he couldn't stop thinking them. The technique must 
    be really effective with men who more or less already believed 
    them, he thought. 
     
    The ceaseless repetition of that infernal phrase hadn't even been 
    the worst of it. Every step of the way, through each and every 
    event of the day, Mulder had been battling the reflexes 
    developed through years of FBI training lest he give himself 
    away. After hundreds of hours of extensive weapons training, he 
    was forced to handle automatic and semi-automatic guns as 
    though he'd never used one. Despite endless practice in unarmed 
    self-defense, he'd had to fight as though he'd learned everything 
    he knew on the street. 
     
    The constant self-monitoring had given him a nasty headache. 
     
    All told, his day at the farm -- which was what the White Hand's 
    "training ground" actually was, as evidenced by all the cowpies 
    he'd managed to step in -- had been a waking nightmare. There 
    had been moments when physical exhaustion and the barrage of 
    hate-mongering had threatened to strip him completely of the 
    thin layer of control he was working so hard to maintain. At 
    those moments, an indefinable rage tried to surface, to take 
    control of him and make him do something stupid. Something 
    completely wild. Like what he had done to Scully two nights 
    ago. 
     
    Oh, God. The images were so vivid. The way he'd taken her, the 
    way his possession of her body had become a blinding, urgent 
    necessity, as though he were pouring all the turbulent emotion he 
    couldn't control into her with every thrust. 
     
    And she had let him. But what if she hadn't? 
     
    Not now, he told himself, sitting on the ground with the other 
    men, his lungs heaving with the exertion of a five-mile run. You 
    can't think about this now. It's too dangerous. 
     
    Someone was talking. Focus. 
     
    "...proud of you, men. Today you've learned to defend 
    yourselves, your race and your nation. Go home and think about 
    what you've learned here today." 
     
    Thank God. It was over -- for now. As he got up slowly, careful 
    of his aching muscles, he wondered if and when there would be 
    more of this hideous "training." 
     
    "C'mon, Bobby, we'll take you back." One of the men who'd 
    picked him up in the morning was approaching him. He forced 
    his face to assume the neutral mask he'd worn all day. 
     
    "No," came a voice from behind him. "I'll see to it he gets home." 
     
    Mulder turned to face Flood. He hadn't seen the group's leader 
    all day. What had made him turn up now? 
     
    "I'd like to ask you to do something for me, Bobby," Flood said, 
    as if in answer to Mulder's unspoken question. "We can talk on 
    the way back." 
     
    Mulder moved to follow the older man, praying his reserve of 
    control would last just a little bit longer. 
     
    _______________________ 
    
    END 6/8
    
    Caught in the Act III: Sub Rosa 7/8
    by Parrotfish  
    
    
    He paced the motel room in her absence, knowing full well his 
    anxiety was grossly unfair. He had left her alone two nights in a 
    row. And when he'd returned to her, he'd... 
     
    No. He shoved the memory down yet again. 
     
    A squeal of tires broke his train of thought. He pushed the tacky, 
    flowered window curtain aside in time to see their Taurus 
    coming around the corner and into the parking lot way too fast. 
    It lurched to a crooked stop in front of their room. He watched 
    Scully get out, drop her keys and fall over trying to retrieve 
    them. He let go of the curtain, feeling the anger building again. 
     
    "You shouldn't be driving," he said as she came through the 
    door. 
     
    "I know. It couldn't be helped." 
     
    "Where were you?" 
     
    She glared at him for a long moment, indignant at his hostility. 
    "Five Spot," she said at last. 
     
    He nodded. With a concerted effort, he managed to make the 
    next words come out calmer, colder. "Turn up anything?" 
     
    "As a matter of fact, yes." Scully kicked off her shoes, stumbled 
    to the bed and fell onto it. "The damn room is spinning," she 
    groaned. 
     
    "What happened at the Five Spot?" 
     
    "I met Frank," she said, keeping an arm bent over her eyes to 
    block the light. "He told me about a party this weekend. And he 
    told me about somebody who's going to be there -- Joey Francis. 
    He says Flood confides in him. I figure he may know the 
    whereabouts of the boy." 
     
    "You think it's a solid lead?" 
     
    "I don't know." She heard the urgency in his voice. "Why?" 
     
    "Because we're running out of time. Something's going to 
    happen, and soon." 
     
    She lowered her arm and rolled on her side to look at him. 
    "What?" 
     
    "I'm not sure. But Flood says he wants me to come on a 'mission' 
    sometime early next week. He wouldn't tell me what exactly. 
    But he said it's in Washington. And he asked if I could drive a 
    truck." 
     
    "A truck?" This was not good. She knew exactly what Mulder 
    was thinking, and she agreed. The White Hand was preparing to 
    strike again. 
     
    "Do you think you can get anything out of this guy?" 
     
    "Maybe. Frank says Joey's dying to meet me." The implications 
    of her statement were clear, clouding the air between them. 
     
    "You'll have to go to that party alone. Bring him back here. Try 
    to get him to talk." 
     
    Scully didn't know whether to be hurt or relieved that Mulder 
    saw the necessity of it. "All right." She paused. "But I don't want 
    to..." 
     
    "We'll arrange a signal. I'll barge in and play the jealous lover. 
    That should get rid of him." 
     
    "What if I don't get the information before he tries to get what he 
    came for?" 
     
    Mulder turned away, his shoulders slumping as though a sudden 
    wave of exhaustion had overwhelmed him. "You'll have to," he 
    said. 
     
    In some reservoir behind the wall of stress and bitterness around 
    her, she found the sympathy to ask gently, "How was the 
    training?" 
     
    "Horrible." 
     
    "You should get some rest, Mulder. Don't go out tonight." 
     
    He sighed heavily. "All right." Flopping onto the bed without 
    further conversation, he was asleep in minutes. 
     
    Scully stayed up and watched him for a while, wondering if they 
    could ever rebuild what this nightmarish case seemed bound to 
    destroy. 
     
    ___________________________ 
     
    All eyes followed her as she walked through the crowded, smoky 
    room. 
     
    Her first reaction -- a natural one for her -- was to blame the 
    dress. It plunged low, front and back, hugging her body 
    provocatively. The skirt was loose and very short, it's filmy 
    fabric swinging side to side with the sway of her hips. 
     
    But when she looked around, she realized there were at least a 
    dozen other women in the place dressed equally suggestively. 
    Some of them even looked pretty good in it. 
     
    The eyes were still on her as she approached the table where 
    bottles of booze stood open for the taking. She poured whiskey 
    into a paper cup. Country music blared from speakers set on 
    milk crates on either side of the room. 
     
    She spotted Frank crossing toward her. Here goes. This is going 
    to be the performance of your life, she told herself. 
     
    "Well, hello there, Spitfire." 
     
    "Spitfire?" 
     
    "That's what the guys have been calling you." 
     
    "Oh, really?" 
     
    "Sure. They're all pretty taken with you. Don't tell me you 
    haven't noticed them looking at you." 
     
    "Oh, I noticed. A girl always notices these things." 
     
    "You must be right. Looks like the other girls here have been 
    noticing you getting noticed." 
     
    "Mm-hm." She took a long sip of whiskey and looked around. 
    "Some of the boys seem kinda worth noticing." 
     
    "I hope you're including me." 
     
    Scully smiled coyly. "Do you even have to ask?" She swayed 
    toward him, her body mimicking the seductive sound of her 
    voice. 
     
    He slid an arm around her bare shoulders, pulled her close and 
    said, "You are a little spitfire, aren't you?" 
     
    She laughed lightly. "Are you going to keep me all to yourself?" 
     
    Frank licked his lips before responding. "It's tempting... but the 
    boys would never forgive me. C'mon, I'll introduce you." 
     
    With that, he took her by the arm and marched her to the nearest 
    crowd. 
     
    It wasn't long before the names and faces became a blur. She 
    wandered from group to group, from suggestive comment to 
    wicked leer. Every once in a while, someone would appear from 
    nowhere and maneuver her onto the makeshift dance floor. Until 
    tonight, she'd never have believed she'd be grateful to the college 
    boyfriend who'd dragged her to country-western bars, where 
    she'd learned to move to the twanging, my-baby-left-me-so-I'm-
    cryin'-in-my-beer beat. 
     
    But she had learned, and learned well. She let the music animate 
    her like the touch of a lover, matching the rhythm of the music 
    as she would match the steady strokes of a partner in bed, her 
    hips thrusting in time, her torso undulating in counterpoint. 
     
    With her seductive grace, she pulled each partner closer, so he 
    danced with his hands on her hips, holding her crotch firmly to 
    his. She had felt more erections in one night than in her entire 
    life previously. 
     
    And still she saw no sign of Joey Francis. 
     
    It got later, she got drunker, her voice got throatier with the 
    cigarettes offered, accepted and smoked. Her mind floated on a 
    cloud of liquor. She'd stopped observing, evaluating or 
    analyzing. She almost forgot why she'd come. 
     
    She'd learned her lesson well. 
     
    It must have been past 2 AM when a singularly unattractive, 
    pock-marked youth barely out of his teens cornered her with 
    pathetic pick-up lines about his fast car and her pretty dress. He 
    leaned into her, gesturing wildly in a weak attempt to get a hand 
    on her breast. She was just wondering whether throwing up on 
    the pip-squeak would be overkill when two men appeared, 
    causing the boy to stutter a lame excuse and leave. 
     
    "Hiya, Spitfire," Frank greeted her warmly. 
     
    Dimly, she realized she should probably be ashamed of herself 
    for being so glad to see him. Proves that everything is relative, 
    she thought. 
     
    "Hi yourself." 
     
    "Sorry 'bout him," Frank said, bobbing his head toward the 
    young man who was now sulking near the potato chips. "The 
    town virgin gets kinda horny when he sees a fine piece." 
     
    Scully laughed. "Thanks for scaring him off." 
     
    "Actually, I figured you'd wanna trade him in for a sportier 
    model," Frank said. "Mary Deene, this is Joey Francis." 
     
    Scully turned her attention to the man who had been standing 
    silently at Frank's side. He was indeed a "sportier model" -- tall, 
    muscular, sandy-haired, blue-eyed. She found it wasn't difficult 
    to sound sincere when she said, "I'm glad to meet you." 
     
    "Same here. Care to dance?" 
     
    "Sure." 
     
    He led her onto the floor just as a slow, syrupy ballad began. 
    There was no pretense of working up to it. He just pulled her to 
    him and started swaying. She noted with pleasure that he moved 
    well. Really well. He danced from the center out,  not like most 
    men who merely moved their feet. His body flowed and pulsed 
    against hers, and she responded in kind, melting into him, letting 
    him start the ripple that she built into a wave. 
     
    When the music ended, he leaned over and whispered to her, "I 
    want you." 
     
    She felt her body respond to this total stranger with a rush of 
    heat and an unmistakable surge of wetness. The sensation left 
    her breathless and a little bit panicky. 
     
    She pulled back. 
     
    His eyes narrowed. "Something wrong?" 
     
    You have him, Dana. You had him the minute he saw you. Don't 
    blow it. 
     
    Let it happen. 
     
    Make it happen. 
     
    Make it real. 
     
    It is real. 
     
    "No," she breathed. "It's just that you read my mind." 
     
    He smiled. "My place is just a few miles out of town." 
     
    She smiled back, a warm, sensual smile. "Mine is just up the 
    street." 
     
    "Let's go." 
     
    She was glad they had separate cars. It gave her a chance to 
    recover from the high-octane kiss they'd shared on the dark 
    sidewalk. 
     
    She had been vaguely surprised that he tasted good, with a hint 
    of maple sugar behind the sharp bite of hard liquor. And even 
    more unexpectedly, Francis had seemed to enjoy the kiss, savor 
    it as a fine thing in and of itself and not just a means to an end. 
     
    The drive was over before she knew it, and they were walking 
    through the parking lot toward her motel room. 
     
    "What happened to Bobby?" 
     
    "Out of town. Taking care of some personal business." She 
    opened the door and turned on the light. 
     
    "You got anything to drink around here?" 
     
    "Of course." Good. He wasn't going to jump her straight away. 
    They would talk first. 
     
    "I heard what you and Bobby done the other night," he said as 
    she poured. "Weren't you scared?" 
     
    "Scared? Nah. Not much." 
     
    "Why'd you do it?" 
     
    "Why do you do it?" 
     
    "Me? Because I don't like it when niggers get feeling too 
    comfortable." 
     
    "There you go." 
     
    "Well, ain't you the spitfire? I never met a woman with the guts 
    to do something about it." 
     
    "Yeah? Well, maybe you never met a real woman." 
     
    She crossed the room to give him his drink. He took it with one 
    hand and snaked the other behind her back, pulling her in for a 
    long, smoky kiss. She could feel his hard-on pressed against her 
    belly and realized she was running out of time. 
     
    When the kiss broke, she backed away and sat on the bed. 
     
    "So tell me, you trust the guys you're in with?" she asked. 
     
    "You're in with 'em too now." 
     
    "That's why I'm asking." 
     
    "You shouldn't have to ask. It's all about trust." 
     
    "Still, you never know. This is some serious shit. A lot of people 
    would like to know what goes on here. How do you know no 
    one's gonna tell 'em?" 
     
    "George can handle it." 
     
    "He can?" 
     
    "You bet. George is a remarkable man." 
     
    "I can see that." 
     
    Damn. Maybe he doesn't know? 
     
    "Besides," Francis said, putting his drink down on the dresser 
    and edging toward her. "George has taken out some insurance." 
    He leaned over her and placed a hand on each bare thigh, just 
    below the hem of her dress. 
     
    "Oh, come on, Joey," she said, laughing. "It ain't like you can get 
    a piece of the rock for this. What's he do, pay a premium and 
    keep it in a safe-deposit box?" 
     
    "No, he does not," Francis replied, nuzzling her neck. "He keeps 
    it in a little cabin in the woods." 
     
    Scully turned her head to look him in the eye like a hunter sizing 
    up her prey. What would it take to bring him down? 
     
    She reached forward and put a hand on his stomach, feeling the 
    hard ridges of muscle there. God, he was like a rock. A warm, 
    flesh-and-blood rock. Her hand trailed its way down until the 
    firm tip of the erection in his pants was cupped in her palm. A 
    rock. 
     
    "A cabin's a funny place to keep insurance," she said, barely 
    recognizing the husky silk of her own voice. 
     
    "Not this kind," he said, pushing her back onto the bed and 
    easing himself on top of her. "This kind calls for lakefront 
    property." His hands were on her breasts, squeezing gently. She 
    moaned, letting the sensation of his surprisingly gentle touch 
    spill over her, thrusting her hips against him in response. 
     
    "Lake Suskatow is a pretty place," she whispered. 
     
    "It's perfect," he growled, slipping a hand between her legs, 
    pressing his fingers into the satiny fabric of her underwear. 
    Dimly, she wondered at the fact that it was drenched with her 
    response to the hard body that pressed her deep into the mattress. 
    His cock felt huge against her thigh, and she felt her cunt twitch 
    at the thought of taking it in and riding it. Lust and female pride 
    washed over her at the thought of what she could do to this very 
    male, virile body, the way she could make it moan and move and 
    sweat and ache with need. He was hers if she wanted him. 
     
    But... 
     
    She swallowed hard. "Joey. Wait a minute. I gotta get 
    something." 
     
    "Yeah," he murmured against the skin of her neck. "You're 
    gonna get something." 
     
    "No, I mean ... protection." 
     
    "Oh." He rolled off her. Shakily, she got to her feet and hurried 
    into the bathroom. She was back almost immediately, foil 
    packets in hand. 
     
    Francis was on his feet. "Turn around." 
     
    She did. With slow care, he unzipped her dress and slid it off her 
    shoulders. It fell around her feet, and he reached around her to 
    cup her breasts inside her bra. Her head fell back against his 
    shoulder. 
     
    "Oh, yeah," she murmured as he pinched the stiff tips between 
    his fingers. She heard his breath quicken and felt him push 
    himself against her buttocks, knowing that, in another moment, 
    he'd unzip himself and she would feel him and see him, the effect 
    she had on him, smell it on his skin. She would... 
     
    The door burst open and Mulder came flying into the room. Joey 
    Francis backed away. 
     
    "Bobby! I didn't know you..." 
     
    "Get the fuck out before I kill you." His voice was lethal. 
     
    "She's just so pretty...." 
     
    "Now!" 
     
    Mulder's success at building Bobby a reputation for homicidal 
    behavior became obvious as Francis grabbed his jacket and ran 
    for the door. 
     
    Scully was left standing there in bra and panties, her skin flushed 
    and sheened with sweat, her breasts rising and falling rapidly  
    with her breath. 
     
    Mulder closed the door. "Are you all right?" 
     
    "Fine." She turned and disappeared into the bathroom, returning 
    a moment later in a white terrycloth robe. 
     
    He took a step toward her. She backed away, clutching the robe 
    closed at her neck. 
     
    "Don't." 
     
    "What? Scully, you..." 
     
    "Don't!" He cringed as she slammed a mental door in his face. 
     
    "Did he talk?" 
     
    "A cabin out on Lake Suskataw. We have to go find it now. 
    Tonight." 
     
    "It's morning," Mulder said, waving toward the window where a 
    pale glow could be seen. "We'll have to wait for it to get dark 
    again." 
     
    She nodded. "You're right." 
     
    "Good work, Scully," he said as she got into bed, feeling the 
    evidence of her arousal crusting in her panties. 
     
    His words mocked her. Yeah, she thought. It's a living. 
     
    _________________________________ 
     
    The woods are lovely, dark and deep, 
    But I have promises to keep, 
    And miles to go before I sleep, 
    And miles to go before I sleep. 
     
    Mulder closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of pine and 
    mulch and moss, the gentle words of Robert Frost drifting lazily 
    though his thoughts. 
     
    He heard a splash and opened his eyes. He could barely make 
    out Scully's black-clad form in a sleek, silver canoe. It made a 
    gentle crunch as she grounded it. 
     
    "Any trouble?" 
     
    "No. It was there for the taking." 
     
    "Get in front. I'll turn it." Standing in water to his knees, Mulder 
    held the canoe steady as she moved forward. Then he swung it 
    around and pushed off as he climbed in back. 
     
    They paddled in silence. Scully took regular compass readings, 
    speaking only to give him slight course corrections. The night 
    was cloudy, and they'd decided to risk a straight route across the 
    lake. Hugging the shoreline would have been safer but three 
    times the distance, and they didn't know how long it would take 
    to find the cabin and determine whether the boy was there. 
     
    As it turned out, finding it was no trouble. Not only had the 
    information gleaned from discreet inquiries at the local bait shop 
    turned out to be accurate, but there was a dock in front that was 
    visible even in the faintest of moonlight. 
     
    They ran ashore about a hundred feet away, and as quietly as 
    they could hauled the canoe into the sheltering underbrush. 
    Approaching the cabin cautiously, they began a first circle to 
    determine the layout. They were halfway around when Mulder 
    grabbed Scully's arm and stood stock still, listening. 
     
    Soon, she heard it too. The splash, creak, splash, creak of oars. 
    More than one set, judging from the irregular timing. They 
    retreated to the tree line, crouched down and waited. 
     
    Minutes later, two dark shapes could be seen approaching across 
    the lake. The rowboats bumped the dock, and a man jumped out 
    to secure them before the rest came ashore. There were eight 
    men in all. They carried flashlights, the beams swinging across 
    them as they moved. 
     
    "Flood," Mulder whispered. 
     
    "And Joey Francis," Scully whispered back. 
     
    Mulder took her arm and pulled her deeper into the woods. 
    "Frank is here, too," he said when they'd put some distance 
    between themselves and the cabin. "And several other men I 
    recognize from the training camp." 
     
    "What are you saying?" 
     
    "Scully, all his top lieutenants are here. We may never get 
    another opportunity like this. If we do it now, no one has the 
    chance to run." 
     
    "Do it? Do what?" 
     
    "Nab the boy. Round up the leaders of the White Hand." 
     
    "Are you crazy? There are eight of them -- probably more, 
    because somebody must be stationed here to watch the boy." 
     
    "We have the element of surprise. If we get the boy out, all we 
    have to do is pin them down until the cavalry arrives." 
     
    "Oh, is that all?" 
     
    "Scully, we have no choice. They're probably meeting here 
    tonight to plan an attack in Washington in a couple of days. The 
    chance of our getting a better opportunity is nil." 
     
    He watched her turn over the facts in that relentlessly methodical 
    brain of hers, knowing she would not try to avoid the inevitable 
    conclusion. 
     
    "First, we have to verify that the boy is here," she said at last. He 
    nodded. "If he is, I'll call for a SWAT team. We'll have to get the 
    boy out and keep those men in until they get here." 
     
    "If we can grab the kid without alerting his captors, that may be 
    no problem," Mulder said. 
     
    "Big if." 
     
    "One thing at a time. Let's look for the kid." 
     
    She nodded tightly and moved back toward the cabin. He nearly 
    tripped over her when she suddenly stopped short and crouched 
    down. Instinctively, he dropped beside her. 
     
    "What?" he whispered. 
     
    She pointed. A man with a rifle was standing outside the cabin's 
    only door. He must have taken up the position when the others 
    went inside. 
     
    There were three windows in the side of the cabin facing them. 
    Bright light streamed from two of them. 
     
    "Kid's in the dark room," Mulder whispered. 
     
    "You don't know that." 
     
    "Has to be." 
     
    "Not good enough. We have to be sure before we call for 
    backup." 
     
    Minutes went by as they watched and waited. The guard stood 
    leaning against the doorpost, staring out into the darkness. 
     
    "He's not going anywhere," Scully whispered at last. 
     
    "He needs a reason. I'm going to draw him around back. You 
    take a look inside." 
     
    "Mulder..." He was gone before she could stop him. 
     
    She didn't move, barely breathed as she waited for something to 
    happen. It seemed like hours until ... 
     
    Snap. 
     
    That was it. One twig snapping. Not enough to raise the alarm. 
    Just enough to make him take a look. 
     
    As the guard disappeared around the corner of the cabin, she 
    moved in, quickly but quietly. She was at the darkened window 
    in moments, then back at their sheltered position in the woods. 
     
    Minutes passed, and still Mulder hadn't returned. She was on the 
    verge of going to look for him when he crept up beside her -- 
    carrying the rifle. 
     
    "What happened?" 
     
    "Let's just say I took care of our friend." 
     
    "You what? What if the kid wasn't here?" 
     
    "But he is, isn't he?" 
     
    Scully clenched her jaw in frustration. "Yes." 
     
    "Make the call." 
     
    She retreated deeper into the forest to use her cellular phone 
    while he kept watch. He'd seen no activity outside the cabin 
    when she returned. 
     
    "Thirty minutes," she said. 
     
    "Shit." 
     
    "We're in the middle of nowhere. What did you expect?" 
     
    "We have to move now," he said. "They could miss the guard at 
    any time." 
     
    She nodded. Without another word, they began their stealthy 
    approach. Scully was ready with a small hook, which she used to 
    slip through the crack between the two hinged windows and 
    release the latch that held them together. The tiny click it made 
    sounded like a gunshot to her sensitized ears, but there was no 
    reaction from inside. 
     
    Mulder handed her the rifle and climbed in. He could hear the 
    murmur of voices in the next room. 
     
    He regretted what he had to do next, but there was no 
    alternative. He crept to the bed and clamped a hand tightly over 
    the sleeping boy's mouth. Two shining eyes sprang open, 
    radiating fear. Before the child could get his bearings, Mulder 
    scooped him up and carried him to the window, handing him 
    through to Scully, who replaced his hand with hers to prevent the 
    child from screaming. 
     
    As soon as she had him, she moved out as quickly as possible. 
    Mulder climbed back out, grabbed the rifle off the ground where 
    she'd left it and took off after them. They didn't stop until they'd 
    put half a mile between themselves and the cabin. 
     
    Only then did Scully take her hand from the boy's mouth. He 
    was crying in terror, hiccuping and sobbing pitifully. 
     
    She sank to the ground, hugging him in her arms and rocking. 
     
    "Shhh... it's okay. We're here to help you. Shhhh." 
     
    Mulder watched, fascinated, as she quieted the boy, who 
    eventually responded to the strength and confidence of the 
    woman who held him. 
     
    "Give me your phone and go back," she told Mulder when the 
    boy's weeping had abated. "I'll be right behind you." 
     
    Her request baffled him, but there was no time to argue. He did 
    as she asked. 
     
    All was still at the cabin. Was it too much to hope it would 
    remain that way for the next 20 minutes? He suspected that, with 
    his luck, it was. 
     
    "Do you think the two of us can hold them?" He hadn't heard her 
    approach and was startled when she spoke. 
     
    "Depends how they're armed." 
     
    "I know. That's been worrying me. If they've got enough metal in 
    there, this could get ugly." 
     
    "Just what we need. Another Waco to feed the militia 
    movement," Mulder whispered. "How's the kid?" 
     
    "I left him talking to my mother." 
     
    "You're kidding." 
     
    "I didn't want him to get scared and wander off. I told her to keep 
    talking to him, telling him to stay put." 
     
    Mulder smiled. "You're a genius." 
     
    "I'll go around the other side," she said, ignoring the compliment. 
    "Remember, the objective is to keep them pinned down. Don't 
    shoot to kill unless absolutely necessary." 
     
    He nodded. "Here, take this," he said, handing her the rifle. 
    "You're better with it than I am." 
     
    He was right. She was. She'd learned when she was young, first 
    with BB guns and, later, real rifles, though she'd never hunted 
    animals with her brothers. Not since that first time, when she'd 
    killed a snake with a BB rifle and learned what it meant to die. 
     
    She took the gun and crept away into the darkness. 
     
    Mulder felt the forest close in on him as soon as she was gone. 
    He settled down to wait, sitting cross-legged on the damp 
    ground. 
     
    ____________________________ 
    
    END 7/8
    
    Caught in the Act III: Sub Rosa 8/8
    by Parrotfish   
    
    
    Ten of the slowest minutes ever measured by a clock went by as 
    Scully crouched behind a tree, rifle at the ready, and waited. If 
    she could just make it through the next ten, a few dozen other 
    people would show up to relieve Mulder and her of the burden of 
    responsibility. That burden had become so heavy in recent days, 
    like a physical thing strapped to her back, making every waking 
    moment a torture. 
     
    Ten minutes isn't so long, she told herself. The time it took to 
    microwave a frozen dinner. Stay on hold for the next available 
    representative. Spend a dollar on Sprint. 
     
    Lose your virginity. Take your wedding vows. Die. 
     
    Come to think of it, a lot could happen in just ten minutes. 
     
    And suddenly, she knew it was about to. A voice was calling 
    from inside the cabin. 
     
    "Paul? Paul! Get in here!" Several minutes went by. Then a door 
    opened and closed on the other side. She tightened her grip on 
    the rifle and waited. 
     
    A shadowy figure carrying a rifle appeared around the corner of 
    the cabin. She kept him in her sights as he paused, obviously 
    looking around. She was surprised he didn't call Paul's name. 
     
    She was even more surprised when he started moving, heading 
    straight toward her as if he knew she was there. Her finger 
    tightened on the trigger as he approached, his rifle pointed at the 
    ground. 
     
    When he was no more than two dozen feet away, he stopped. 
     
    "Agent Scully." Barely above a whisper. 
     
    She froze, unsure what to do. But she recognized the voice. 
     
    "Agent Scully, I need to talk to you. Now." 
     
    "Put down the rifle." The man did so, then walked toward her. 
    "That's close enough. How do you know my name, Frank?" 
     
    "Art. Art Saunders. CIA." 
     
    "You're kidding." 
     
    "Look, we don't have time for this," he hissed. "Are you going to 
    shoot me or not?" 
     
    She relaxed her grip on the rifle. "Not immediately," she said. He 
    crouched beside her. "If the CIA had a man inside, what did they 
    need us for?" 
     
    "Once the kid is rescued, your cover is blown." 
     
    "So?" 
     
    "So I can't afford that." 
     
    "What do you mean?" 
     
    "I'm deep cover. Long term. You'll find I'm going to manage to 
    escape this mess and turn up in some other part of the country, 
    with some other militia group. And impeccable credentials from 
    the White Hand." 
     
    "Jesus. You mean you live like this?" 
     
    "Yeah." 
     
    "But if you knew about this cabin, why didn't you just tell me? 
    Why set me up with Joey Francis?" 
     
    "I didn't know. Not until tonight. Flood brought us here because 
    he was planning on moving the boy tomorrow anyway. He's 
    getting ready for the next mission." 
     
    "Which is?" 
     
    "Truck bomb at the Holocaust Museum." 
     
    "Jesus." 
     
    "Yeah. Your timing is excellent. Look, I'd love to stay here and 
    chat. But I have important information you need to know. I'm 
    holding the only other rifle in this group. Two guys have 
    handguns, but that's it. When Flood noticed the guard was 
    missing, he called in reinforcements. There are a dozen guys on 
    their way with automatic weapons and grenades. They're coming 
    from the east by trail. You've got to..." 
     
    A shot split the air. Almost instantly, Scully felt something warm 
    and wet spray her face. Art Saunders keeled over in front of her. 
     
    Another shot rang out, but she was already moving, rolling 
    across the damp forest floor before the round bit the dirt she had 
    just vacated. The rifle was braced against her shoulder before 
    she'd stopped, and she squeezed off two shots without even 
    identifying the target, aiming at the source of the gunfire that had 
    felled the CIA agent. 
     
    She saw a dark form drop as she stopped rolling. After waiting to 
    see if it would move, she crawled over and turned the body with 
    the rifle barrel. 
     
    Joey Francis. Clean shot through the throat. Dead. 
     
    She reached for her cell phone, hoping it wasn't too late to divert 
    a team to the eastern trail. 
     
    _________________________ 
     
    Mulder heard a shot, then another, then two more in quick 
    succession. They'd come from Scully's position. His heart raced 
    as he resisted the urge to run toward the sounds, to see if she was 
    okay. Instead, he forced himself to turn his attention toward the 
    cabin. The light had gone on in the second room, and there were 
    faces in each window. He considered firing some warning shots 
    but decided to wait and see what would happen. 
     
    To his surprise, nothing did. The faces remained in the windows, 
    looking out into the darkness as if they were waiting for 
    something. No shots were fired, and no one emerged. 
     
    Five minutes slipped away in silence. Five minutes, during 
    which Fox Mulder prayed with all his might to a God in whom 
    he didn't believe that his partner was not lying on the ground 
    fifty yards away, watering the ground with her blood. 
     
    _________________________ 
     
    "Congratulations." 
     
    "Thank you, sir." 
     
    There was no pride or satisfaction in the words, Skinner noted. 
    Scully had just responded by rote. It was so unlike her. 
     
    Then again, everything seemed wrong about the both of them. 
    The two agents he'd sent out on this impossible mission had been 
    angry, defiant, confident, united. The two before him now were... 
     
    It was hard to put a finger on the right word. Tentative? Listless? 
     
    Broken? 
     
    He wasn't sure. But he had known them for four years, had seen 
    them wade through every manner of hell on earth, and he had 
    never seen them like this. They were somehow all wrong. 
     
    They sat in their usual places, side by side across from him. 
    Unlike the dozens of times they'd sat there frustrated by defeat, 
    this time they were victorious. They'd accomplished the mission 
    and now could name their reward. It meant the salvation of their 
    partnership. 
     
    And yet they sat there looking like they couldn't get away from 
    each other fast enough. 
     
    "The boy is safe with his family," Skinner said. "They've all been 
    placed in the witness protection program." 
     
    "I see." 
     
    "The SWAT team leader tells me your handling of the situation 
    at the scene, combined with the information you provided on the 
    backup force, made it relatively simple to capture all the militia 
    members alive, except for the two who were dead before the 
    team arrived. I gather from your report that those deaths were 
    unavoidable. Fortunately, they were not key members of the 
    group." 
     
    "No sir." 
     
    Looks like Scully's doing all the talking today, Skinner mused. 
     
    "Needless to say, you may both resume working on the X-Files 
    immediately." 
     
    "Umm ... can we have 24 hours to inform you of our decision on 
    this matter, sir?" 
     
    Mulder's sudden request struck Skinner momentarily speechless. 
    He noticed Scully's eyes close. God, she looks tired, he thought. 
     
    "Of course. Go home and get some rest. You've earned it." 
     
    The two rose to leave. Scully paused at the door and turned 
    back. "Sir? I'd like to be informed of the funeral arrangements 
    for Agent Saunders." 
     
    "Certainly. I'll have Kimberly call you." 
     
    "Thank you." 
     
    The door closed behind them and AD Skinner sat down to re-
    read the report on his desk, hoping to find between the lines a 
    clue that might explain the sorry spectacle he'd just witnessed. 
     
    _ 
    ____________________ 
     
    "Go away." Mulder said it coldly, firmly, loudly, as soon as he 
    heard her key in the lock. 
     
    She came in. "You asked for 24 hours to make a decision, 
    Mulder. What were you planning to do? Make it alone?" 
     
    "Yes." 
     
    "You bastard." 
     
    "Ooo, that hurt. Navy Dad teach you such language?" 
     
    "Fuck you!" 
     
    "I'll take a number." 
     
    When her hand made contact with his face, it was loud and 
    painful and singularly ungratifying. The tears in her eyes did 
    nothing to disguise the pure fury in her voice. 
     
    "If you must punish yourself, Mulder, I'll thank you not to do it 
    at my expense." He made no reply, just turned his back. "How 
    can you do this to me? I crawl through hell to get back to you, 
    only to find you've just walked away." 
     
    "Is that what it looks like from where you're standing, Scully? 
    Funny, because from here it's altogether different." He spoke 
    without facing her. "It's like I've been standing outside a closed 
    door for an eternity. When the dark, cold, lonely hallway is 
    finally too much to bear, you open the door a crack and ask me 
    to wait a while longer." 
     
    "I thought we were past this." The tears were still there, but a 
    sorrowful tone tamed the anger in her voice. 
     
    "So did I." 
     
    "I guess we were naive to believe that becoming lovers would 
    change everything." 
     
    "I guess we were." 
     
    Silence strangled the flow of conversation as Mulder's words 
    struck them both with the threat of finality. 
     
    Scully screwed up her courage to ask the question that had to be 
    asked. 
     
    "Do you regret it?" 
     
    He turned to her, and the pain she saw in his face tore at her 
    heart. "I don't know." 
     
    She closed her eyes, squeezing two perfect little tears down her 
    cheeks. "God, Mulder. Where did we pick up the habit of 
    brutalizing ourselves and each other when it all gets to be too 
    much?" 
     
    He shrugged. "And now we have a new way to do it." 
     
    There was no denying it, she realized with horror. They had both 
    used sex to push each other away, just as surely as they'd ever 
    used it to draw close. 
     
    They'd done so much damage. The question was, could it be 
    undone? She didn't know. But, ever the realist, she recognized 
    one thing with certainty: The only thing worse than trying and 
    failing would be not trying at all. 
     
    She crossed the space between them and gently took his hand. 
    "I'm not sure I know how to change this," she began quietly. 
    "But I do know that I love you as much today as I did last week 
    and last year. I crave your touch, your smile, your mere 
    presence. I can't see anything getting better by giving up those 
    things." 
     
    His eyes fell to the floor, and she could barely hear him when he 
    spoke. "Maybe we should go back to the way it was." 
     
    "You mean, stop sleeping together?" 
     
    "Yes." 
     
    "That wouldn't solve anything. It wouldn't make the emotional 
    demands of this relationship any simpler. Besides, now that those 
    lines have been erased, I don't even remember where they were." 
    She reached out and lifted his chin with one finger, a gesture 
    borrowed from his repertoire. "For whatever it's worth, Mulder, 
    the door is wide open, and I'm truly sorry it hasn't always been 
    that way. Do you want to come in?" 
     
    One minute his eyes were locked on hers, the intensity of his 
    love evident. 
     
    The next minute, he jerked away and crossed his arms over his 
    chest. 
     
    "It's too late," he said. 
     
    A painful, choking lump lodged itself in her throat. "Why? Why 
    is it too late?" 
     
    "After what I did..." 
     
    "What you did? We're back to that?" There was such a raw, 
    volatile mixture of emotions in her voice that it hurt him 
    physically to hear it, like invisible hands were squeezing his 
    lungs and heart. "Why must you see yourself as some kind of 
    psychopath? Why? You nurture this image of the tortured soul 
    always teetering on the edge of insanity, and you think it makes 
    you so damn special. But it's just cowardice, Mulder. You're 
    afraid that someday you'll wake up happy, and you won't have 
    some big fucking quest that makes you different than the rest of 
    the world. The trouble is that, in order to feed your mania, you 
    have to rob yourself of joy. And to do that, you have to rob me 
    of mine." Her voice cracked. 
     
    "I'm sorry," he said so quietly she barely heard it. 
     
    "If you couldn't do this, Mulder, why did you ever start it?" 
     
    "I didn't think." 
     
    "Don't lie to me!" The anger strengthened her, made it possible 
    to swallow the lump in her throat and speak freely. "You never 
    do anything without thinking. Before you came to me and told 
    me you wanted me, you'd thought about it a lot. So if you can't 
    tell me the truth, I'll tell you." 
     
    She paused to catch her breath, look at him, size him up. "You 
    started this because you had to. Your enforced emotional 
    isolation from the rest of humanity was threatening to destroy 
    you. Then one day it dawned on you -- you weren't alone, and 
    you hadn't been for quite some time. I was there with you. And 
    in a blessed, rare moment of emotional stability, you recognized 
    that as a good thing, and you embraced it. Now those self doubts 
    have resurfaced because of this damn case. Because you found it 
    was so easy for you to lose yourself and become Bobby Gorman. 
    And now you're going to try to protect me from the dark, evil 
    force at your core that made it possible. But I don't buy it." 
     
    Was he listening? Or had he just shut down? Damn it. She 
    couldn't tell. But she sure as hell wasn't going to stop now. She 
    reached out, took his hand and placed it on her chest, his palm 
    resting in the space between her breasts. 
     
    "What do you feel when you touch me? Is it dark and evil? Tell 
    me the truth this time. That's what matters, right? The truth?" 
     
    That was it. She'd called his bluff, played every card, risked it 
    all. She could do nothing but let him show his hand. 
     
    He shook his head slowly. "No, it's not," he said. For the first 
    time since she'd arrived, he brought his eyes to hers voluntarily 
    and let them stay there, let her see past the wall of fear and doubt 
    he'd been hiding behind. "It's good and true," he whispered. 
     
    She let out a long breath. "Then that's all that matters." She 
    placed her hand on his chest so they stood face to face, palm to 
    heart. "Make love to me." 
     
    "Are you sure?" 
     
    "Trust me." 
     
    "I do, Scully. I swear I do. But I don't trust me." 
     
    "Then let me do it for you." 
     
    Taking his hand from her chest, he drew her down onto the 
    couch so they were seated side by side. When his hands held her 
    face, it was with the gentlest of touches. When he leaned toward 
    her, his movement was measured and slow. And when his lips 
    touched hers, it was like a prayer of thanks offered at the end of 
    a long and dangerous journey. 
     
    "We do know each other," she whispered as their lips separated. 
    "You have to believe that." 
     
    It was his turn to smile. His hand drifted to the buttons of her 
    blouse and worked them free from their holes. When the garment 
    hung open, he leaned in again to place a kiss on the spot where 
    she'd placed his hand. 
     
    It was exactly the same gesture he'd made so many months 
    before on a night that had changed the course of their lives. "I 
    want you," he said. 
     
    "You can have me," she replied, using the same words she'd said 
    then. 
     
    He slid the blouse from her shoulders, opened the clasp of her 
    bra and removed the undergarment. He lowered his eyes to her 
    breasts and watched the nipples harden under his gaze. Turning 
    his head to one side, he bent over to rest his cheek on the soft 
    mounds. 
     
    "Mulder?" she said minutes later. 
     
    "Mmm?" 
     
    "You okay?" 
     
    "Mmmm-hmmm." 
     
    And suddenly, with a swift, smooth motion, he wrapped his arms 
    around her and jerked her hips forward so that she was flat on 
    her back across his couch. He made quick work of the zipper on 
    her slacks and yanked them down and off, then stretched himself 
    on top of her. 
     
    "Okay, Scully, if that's the way it is, I guess I'll have to make the 
    best of it." He was smirking at her now, and she couldn't help but 
    smile back. 
     
    "Your best is pretty good." 
     
    "Just pretty good? We'll have to work at improving my rating." 
     
    He kissed her again, but not gently this time. 
     
    "Take your clothes off," she managed to gasp into his mouth. 
     
    He raised himself off her and stood. In a self-conscious 
    striptease, he pushed each shirt button through its opening,  
    slipped off the shirt, parted the zipper around the thick ridge of 
    his erection, slid the pants and boxers down, each move effected 
    with such calculated care that she found herself shifting her hips 
    in anticipation. 
     
    "You're too beautiful," she said, her eyes roving his body and 
    coming to rest on the erotic spectacle of his full arousal. 
     
    "You do that to me," he told her. "You always have." 
     
    "I want it." 
     
    He fell forward and caught himself on his arms above her. "Not 
    yet," he said, his lips at her ear. "You seem to feel I torture 
    myself too much. You're right. I should be torturing you." 
     
    The commanding sexuality of his voice and words made her 
    heart beat faster and her exposed flesh quiver. 
     
    He kissed her neck and sucked at the soft skin until she was sure 
    he'd left a mark before moving his mouth to her breast. Instead 
    of taking her nipple in as she'd expected, he licked it, first in long 
    strokes with the flat of his tongue, then in tiny, quick touches, 
    the very end of his tongue buffeting the hard tip. Her breath was 
    coming in ragged gasps before he moved to the other breast, this 
    time engulfing it with the pull of his whole mouth, sucking at it 
    as though she could nurse him. 
     
    "I need you in me," she said, barely finding the breath to speak. 
     
    "No." 
     
    He slid back up her and brought his lips down on hers with 
    hungry force as he wrapped his hands around her breasts, 
    pushing them together beneath him and rubbing his chest against 
    her sensitized peaks. His tongue swept through her mouth again 
    and again, his hips taking up the rhythm so that his hard penis 
    slid along the soft skin of her belly, up and down in time with 
    hands and mouth. 
     
    "Oh God, Mulder. Please..." 
     
    "No," he rasped into her mouth as his thumbs flicked across her 
    nipples, taking up the rhythm. She felt herself approaching 
    impossibly close to the edge from the sensations in her mouth 
    and breasts and skin. 
     
    And then the rhythm changed. His hands slid from her breasts, 
    down her sides to her hips, and his mouth followed, moving 
    down her neck, her chest, her belly. Her hands clenched against 
    his back, fingernails digging and raking long, red ridges into his 
    skin, until she couldn't reach his back any more because his head 
    was too far away, between her legs, kissing the soft flesh of her 
    inner thighs as her hands clutched convulsively at his hair. 
     
    When he brought his mouth to her clitoris, there was no gentle 
    preparation, no soft, tickling licks. He sucked it into his mouth 
    and grazed his teeth along it, his hand coming up to push two 
    fingers inside her. 
     
    White light exploded behind her eyelids instantly. It was as 
    though he was sucking the orgasm out of her, his mouth and 
    hands touching not the organs of her sensation but the sensation 
    itself. Through the wrenching intensity of it, she felt his 
    insistence that, if she would know him, he would demand that 
    she make herself known to him, stripped of all pretense and lying 
    naked, defenseless and writhing beneath him. He was nothing if 
    not demanding, not content to accept her invitation, but probing 
    the length and breadth and width of it, of her willingness to 
    admit him. 
     
    And still he didn't stop. As the wave of her orgasm crested and 
    subsided, he withdrew his fingers but not his mouth. Now he was 
    licking her, pushing through soft folds to taste the cream of her 
    desire for him, to feel the twitching of her cunt around the tip of 
    his tongue in a way his cock was not sensitive enough to do. And 
    when those tiny convulsions stopped, his tongue moved up to lap 
    at her swollen clitoris, sweeping over it again and again like a 
    cat cleaning itself thoroughly, patiently. 
     
    "Mulder, please... now..." 
     
    "No." 
     
    With his hands, he pushed her legs farther apart to give him 
    better access. As he had done with her nipple, he did with her 
    clit, changing his stroke so that now only the curled end of his 
    tongue flicked back and forth against the tip of her, so that every 
    bit of her consciousness was focused on one tiny, intensely 
    sensitive point on her body. 
     
    He felt the muscles in her thighs grow taut and he knew another 
    wave was approaching. Instantly, his mouth was around her, 
    sucking and pulling, his finger inside her, pushing and probing, 
    and this time she groaned with the pleasure and intensity of it, 
    her fingers twined painfully in his hair, the soles of her feet 
    pressing down so that her hips and buttock rose clear of the 
    leather surface of the couch. 
     
    Again, he didn't stop, and this time he didn't change anything, 
    just stayed with her over the top, sucked at her as her hips sunk 
    back down, moved his hand back and forth so his finger 
    massaged the sensitive spot inside her. He felt her body 
    quivering with the extended orgasm he knew she was having, 
    and he reveled in the way he could feel her having it, the way he 
    could give it to her to have and have and have. He heard her say 
    his name, then say it again and again so that it became a steady 
    chant, and then the pitch of it and the volume of it changed and 
    rose, and finally, finally he felt her climb to a new peak, 
    convulse with a new wave of pleasure, her body writhing so hard 
    he could barely hold his mouth to her center. 
     
    And she screamed his name. 
     
    His mouth left the point of her sensation, and for a brief moment, 
    her body went slack. He slid up the length of her, brought his 
    cock to her twitching entrance and slid himself inside her. 
     
    "I'm here," he gasped into her ear. "I'm here. Can you feel me?" 
     
    "Yes..." 
     
    She bucked so hard as he entered her that he had to wrap both 
    arms tightly around her to hang on. Her flesh inside felt so alive 
    around him, moving against the organ of his pleasure, clenching 
    on it and heating it. He let himself stay a moment planted deep 
    within before pulling out and plunging forward again. Her legs 
    came up around his back and he did it again, uniting his living 
    flesh with hers so that they throbbed together in one seamless, 
    shared sensation. 
     
    "Can you feel that, Scully? Can you feel me inside you?" He 
    didn't know he'd spoken aloud until she answered. 
     
    "Yes...." 
     
    "I can feel you inside me, too," he grunted, pushing into her 
    again and yet again. "All the time. Christ, you feel so good. How 
    did you get there?" 
     
    She answered with an inarticulate cry, and he felt her close 
    completely around him, her cunt on his cock, her legs on his 
    waist, her arms on his back, her heart on his soul, and the heat of 
    her called to his own heat, drew it from him so forcefully that he 
    felt it surge through the length of his body before streaming out 
    of him and into her so that there was no mind and body, no him 
    and her, but just this perfect, single, boundless moment. 
     
    Ten minutes later -- not such a long time, but long enough to 
    change everything -- wrapped in each other beneath an old, wool 
    blanket, they slept. 
     
    ____________________________ 
     
    The piece of paper hadn't been there when he'd left the office the 
    previous evening. It lay perfectly centered on the black, leather 
    surface of his desk. Skinner strode across the room and picked it 
    up. 
     
    After a quick glance, he took off his jacket and hung it in the 
    closet before sitting down to read it again. 
     
    "Federal Bureau of Investigation Form 1598/B-1997. 
    Notification of permanent assignment. X-Files division." 
     
    At the bottom were two signatures. 
     
    Fox Mulder. 
     
    Dana Scully. 
     
    Skinner smiled. "It's about time." 
     
    ___________________________
    
    END 8/8 
    
    


End file.
